The Contract
by what the face
Summary: AU. Rachel Berry took the job at Playboy Magazine strictly as a last resort. Things were going fine until the secrets of her friends began to unravel. She's blackmailed into destroying her boss. But what if by some miracle she fell for him along the way?
1. Just To Pay The Rent

**Title: **The Contract

**Author: **what the face

**Pairing(s): **Quick and Karofsky/Female OC with eventual Puckleberry, Fabang (Quinn and Mike) and Karofsky/Male OC. Samtana and Klaine throughout the whole of the fic because I'm feeling a growing love for trouty mouth and his latina - even though I prefer her with her true love, Brittany - and I will never let go of my wonderful Klaine! I may include Finn but I haven't thought it through yet, if so he'll be with Brittany, Tina or on his own. I haven't tried most of these ships out yet and I'm excited to give them a go. _This is a Puckleberry centred fanfic._

**Rating: **M for sexual references and Puck, Karofsky, and Santana Language.

**Summary: **Rachel doesn't have enough money to pay the rent. She'd lied and told her best friend, Santana, that she had an audition for a new musical on Saturday. Excited, Santana whipped out the Tequila and claimed: _My savings account is gonna go up a fuckload! _But Rachel doesn't have an audtion. In fact, she's given up on Broadway altogether. She's got a job interview at the notoriously infamous _Playboy _magazine, where she's offered the job on one condition: She has to promise that she won't fall in love with her _sexist pig_ of a boss.

**A/N: **Just a little something I've been thinking about continuing. I'd like to see the reception it gets. Ignore the possible rushed tone. I'm tired and it's well past midnight. I love you all and enjoy. Please review and let me know what's going on in those little minds of yours.

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><p>I'd spent far too long pining after a dream that would never happen. Kurt had suggested that I go after West End, but I knew that I'd never be able to leave America. My whole life was here.<p>

I _could_ come to accept the idea that Broadway wasn't for me. I had continually lost out on the big roles to prettier, funnier and more talented actresses. I couldn't go on like this; barely scraping by with my minor roles on productions such as _Guys and Dolls _and _Legally Blonde: The Musical._ I could barely afford my half of the rent. I had to get a reality check. I was getting old and I'd never planned to be twenty-five and unemployed eighty percent of the time.

I stared at the skyscraper above me, clutching the handle of my briefcase in my shaking hands. I hadn't worn something so professional since my college days. I could handle the heels – with a best friend like Santana, I'd gotten used to them rather quickly. But the pencil skirt and the tight pink blouse? I'd much rather be in one of my usual sweaters.

Kurt had - rather obviously, might I add – left me a small newspaper cutting sitting by the brown paper bag he left on the counter for me every Monday morning. I'd been reaching inside the bag, hungry for my traditional Monday morning bagel, when I'd spied it. Curious, I'd picked it up and read it.

_BROADWAY MAGAZINE_

_Ph: (07) 6788 9886_

_Features Editor needed. Past writing experience not n__ecessary. Looking for employee with a keen eye for Broadway musicals and plays. Good if has previous theatre experience and reasonable talent._

Naturally - even though the job seemed perfect for me - I'd done what any self-respecting actress would do and ignored it. I'd come across a break soon enough. I didn't need to give up my dreams.

I'd headed out to do what I usually did on a Monday. This was, of course, to go and pick Santana up from work and whisk her away to a shopping complex. She'd spend a load of money - which she could afford, being a high-class Law school graduate and all – and I'd watch her do it while I enjoyed the free lunch she shouted me with.

I'd been listening to San bad-mouth the Subway employee who had apparently put too much cheese in her sandwich when she abruptly stopped talking and stared at me. "You got a new job yet?" She'd asked; her mouth full of bread.

I swallowed. Of course I didn't. I hadn't had a job in over a year.

"You've so got a new job!" Santana exclaimed, dropping her sandwich onto the wrapper. "I'm so happy, Rach, now I can stop buying you shit!"

I laughed uneasily. I couldn't tell her that I was still unemployed. It had been far too long and frankly, it was getting embarrassing. "Yes," I'd lied, "I've got an audition on Saturday."

"That's fucking great," my best friend sighed contentedly, "My savings are gonna go up a fuckload."

"I-I'm not sure that's an appropriate unit of measure."

"Trust me. It goes a crapload, then a shitload and a fuckload is like the final degree-"

Anyway, that was how I'd ended up calling the number on the newspaper advertisement. A nasal sounding woman had picked up, "Good afternoon, Broadway Magazine. This is Linda speaking. How may I connect your call?"

I'd blanched. "Uh, I'm Rachel Berry… I'm calling about the job advertised in the _Times-"_

"Sorry, sweetheart, but the position was just filled."

I sighed. Now what was I going to do? I couldn't keep relying on my friends to pay for my food, rent, _everything. _I was going to have to do something demeaning – like get a job at McDonalds cleaning squished fries off the greasy tiled floor. I didn't think I could do that, though. I was a vegan.

"Oh," I said dejectedly, "Well, thanks anyway."

I was about to hang up when the woman spoke up in her rather annoying voice. She sounded like she was chewing gum. For a second I wondered if the magazine was actually legitimate.

"But honey, if you're still interested, word is there's an employment opportunity elsewhere."

I shifted uncomfortably, swinging my legs up and onto the kitchen counter. Kurt would have crucified me if he'd seen me, but he was out on a date with his boyfriend Blaine. I was free to behave like the slob I really was. "I'm interested, I guess," I mumbled.

"There's an opening for an assistant at a highly prestigious magazine owned by our sister company."

I shrugged. "Which magazine would this be?"

"_Playboy, _sweetheart. It sounds terrible and degrading, I know, but it's far better money that what we're getting here in Brooklyn."

I wrinkled my nose. "I don't know-"

"Honey, I know. Trust me, I know. You don't wanna seem cheap or hooker-like working for a bunch of jerk-wads. But this is the magazine business. That's basically all you're gonna get."

I cringed. The woman really had turned out to be the definition of white-trash. "I don't _actually _have any experience in this field."

The woman only laughed, coughing and spluttering as she did so. "Sorry, Hon. Smoker's cough," she muttered, "But, sweetheart, seriously. Listen to Linda."

"Okay," I said slowly, wearily, "I'm listening."

She coughed and I swear I heard lung cancer developing. "You're not hideously ugly, right?"

I shrugged and peered over at my reflection in the kitchen window. I pouted a little and fixed my hair. "No. I don't think I'm _hideously _ugly."

"Well, then. You're already on the way to success."

I looked away from the window. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Another coughing fit echoed through the phone. I held it away from my ear, feeling sorry for the next person who had to use the device at the other end of the line. They'd surely get some sort of illness.

"The boss, sweetheart. He's a man-slut, to put it lightly. He'll shove his dick in anything with a taco."

I was confused. "A taco? He has sex with Mexican food?"

"A vagina, honey."

Appalled, I spluttered out, "You mean _any _woman?"

"Man's no fan of necrophilia, but essentially, yes. He even looked me up and down once. I used to work there as a cleaner, you see. He must like a golden oldie every once in a while."

I resisted the urge to gag. "Anyway, Linda, was it-?"

"Yeah, sweetheart."

I battled internally with myself. I was due to pay the rent within a few days and I had less than fifty dollars in my savings account. Things weren't going anywhere for me on the acting front and I suspected that Kurt would be asking Blaine to move in soon. If I couldn't pull my weight I might well lose my apartment.

Sure, Santana would always let me stay at hers but she and her fiance Sam had a very loud and passionate relationship. I didn't want to be reminded that I was alone every night I lay, curled up on the couch with my collection of fluffy cushions, trying desperately to go to sleep as worries about debt crossed my mind.

"Could I have the details for the position, please?"

So, that's how I'd ended up standing out the front of the _Playboy _building. I shook my head at myself for even considering such a stupid thing. _Me, Rachel Berry, working at a magazine like this? _A week ago, if anyone had so much as _joked_ that I'd be applying for this job - well, I would have laughed right in their face.

My hand wrapped around the handle of my sensible black briefcase. It was one of Santana's, of course. I had one briefcase and it was hot pink, a prop that I'd used when I'd played an extra in _Legally Blonde._ I'd gotten excited when Santana had told me that it was the one she'd used in her latest murder trial.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the next twenty minutes. I walked forward, my classic black suede pumps clicking across the pavement. Pushing my way through the large glass double doors, I took in my surroundings.

I was in the lobby of the _Playboy Enterprises _building. Scantily dressed women sat in the receptionist booth, answering the phones with their high-pitched flirty voices. I noticed the way a seedy middle-aged businessman looked me up and down from across the room. Outraged, I sent him a look of disgust.

I _click-clacked _my way to the desk, leaning against it as I waited for the woman in front of me to finish on the phone. She was twirling the cord in her perfectly manicured hands. "No, you hang up first… No, _you _do it._"_

Only slightly annoyed, – because a) I'd been expecting it, and b) Being an actress, I dealt with women like this all the time – I pushed my bangs from my face and sighed, tapping my foot impatiently against the polished white tiled floor.

"Are you the model for the Hot Librarians of 2011 shoot?"

I turned, my face showing nothing but pure revulsion, and stared at the man standing next to me. I'd been expecting a cheesy pickup line, but by the look on his face I could tell that he was deadly serious. "Really?" I spat, "Is that _all _men care about? _Hot librarians?"_

I could tell that he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Typical model," he muttered under his breath, checking his watch.

"Excuse me?" I snapped.

"Listen, lady. Frankly, I _understand_ that _Playboy _is degrading to women…"

I felt like a weight had been lifted off of me. Finally, someone who understood-

"… Yadda, yadda, yadda. But if you're not ready to do what you're being paid for, then you need to quit your job. That okay, princess?"

He was watching his watch, uninterested in keeping eye contact with his supposed 'employee'. I put my briefcase on the desk and crossed my arms, eyeing the identification badge pinned to his navy blue suit jacket.

"If you'd actually listen to me, _David Karofsky, _then you'd realise that you've got the wrong girl."

"Sure," the man sighed, exasperated, "I get it, babe. I really do. You're different and you've got some family back in Russia to support by getting your junk out-"

"I'm not getting my _junk _out," I hissed, taking a step forward and trying to intimidate him, "I'm actually an applicant for the position as the new Executive Assistant to the Editor in Chief."

David looked up and paled. I smirked, smug._ I'd_ showed _him_.

"I'm sorry. This has all been a misunderstanding," he mumbled, hastily straightening his tie.

I uncrossed my arms and grabbed my briefcase again, flashing him a small fake smile. "It's alright, I guess," I said in reply. I wasn't sure what else to say. I couldn't exactly risk the outcome of this interview. I needed a job by Saturday and this was the only thing I had lined up.

David shook his head, citing that it had been a long day. He turned his attention to the receptionist in front of me who was still yapping away on the phone. He looked royally pissed off as he reached over the white desk and took the phone from her ear, slamming it back down on the hook. "Fucking hell, Krystal," he spat, giving her a death glare, "You've got five lines calling in _and _a potential employee right in front of your eyes. Do your fucking job."

The redheaded beauty flashed him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Beardy," she cooed, tapping her shiny nails against the desk.

The back of his neck turned red. He positioned himself so that I had as little view of him as possible. I resisted the urge to chuckle at the ridiculousness of the whole scene. "I told you not to call me that at work."

She pouted, ignoring the phone that was ringing – obnoxiously, if a phone could do such a thing – right by her right hand. "We still on for Friday night, babe?" She whispered loudly. Honestly, it was as if she was trying to be discreet. She was failing miserably though.

David couldn't look me in the eye after he whispered back a quick, "Yeah. I'll pick you up in the town car at eight." He walked away, warning Krystal that I'd better be on my way up to the Editor's office.

Krystal made a call to the boss' office to indicate that I had arrived. I was actually ten minutes early, which I viewed as good punctuality. When I'd told Kurt and Blaine about my job interview at _Playboy, _they'd been highly excited. Hugh Hefner, apparently, was a huge supporter of gay rights. I'd never thought of him as that kind of guy. My roommate and his boyfriend were so supportive that they had in fact compiled a short list of the top three things I needed to do to get the job. One, I was to be punctual to my interview. Two, I was to show apt support for Hefner and his vision of _world sexuality. _And three, I was to show cleavage.

I was going to do all but the last one.

The Editor in Chief's office was on the forty-first floor. I entered the elevator, trying to preserve the open-minded attitude I'd thought I'd perfected in that taxi that morning. It was a lost cause. I was surrounded by sex-maniacs.

At least the elevator music was calming. Soothed for the first time in about a week, I took a deep breath and pressed the correct level button. "Level Forty-One: Offices of the Editor in Chief and Creative Director," asserted the automated female voice.

I was only at level four when the elevator came to a halt. I was disappointed. I'd been looking forward to enjoying my last minute of alone time before the make-it-or-break it moment that was looming in the near future. If I didn't get this job I was officially screwed.

A tall, well-built man in a good-fitting black suit entered the elevator, a briefcase much larger and more expensive-looking than my own in his large hands. He had short brown hair and a square jaw with eyes a crisp spring hazel. He looked me up and down, a smirk on his tanned face. I shifted my balance so that I leant against the wall of the elevator as he then turned and evaluated the controls. He seemed to be headed where I was as he leant back against his own wall without pressing anything. The elevator took off again.

He was staring at me, unabashed. _God, what was with men at this place?_ I thought. I moved my briefcase from my left hand to my right. The thing was heavy, even if it was filled with pointless things like scripts I'd had sent to me when I'd auditioned for a new role and various takeout menus. I'd wanted to look professional if I'd had to open it. The only relevant material inside was two printed Wikipedia pages on Playboy Enterprises and Hugh Hefner. They were conveniently placed right at the top.

Feeling self-conscious and even a little slimy under his gaze, I placed my briefcase on the floor and hastily buttoned the top button of my blouse. I knew it had been too vibrant for a place like this. I should have worn a nun's habit or something.

He didn't notice my attempt at letting him know his perverted gaze was _not_ wanted. Finally, I just couldn't handle it anymore.

"Look," I sighed, picking up my briefcase again, "I'm not really that sure how things work around here, but I just want to let you know that I am in no way interested in pursuing any sexual relationship with you or any of the other men working at this company."

The man scoffed and then smirked. "Whatever, babe."

_Babe? _The nerve.

"Please don't refer to me in that manner. Babe is a degrading term and I'm a very successful woman. I'd appreciate it if you called me by my real name."

I was very careful not to remind myself that I was not actually, in anyone else's definition, a success. I was unemployed and living in a one bedroom apartment, sharing a room with a flamboyant homosexual actor whose own best works included playing the older Billy Elliot for six months in a Broadway Revival. Still, his were better than my own accomplishments. I was practically failure personified.

He raised his thick eyebrows. "Alright, _babe," _he said pointedly.

I bristled, thankful that the elevator had just passed level forty. "I am not your possession," I stated.

He laughed as the automated voice assured us over the intercom that we had arrived at; "Level Forty-One: Offices of the Editor in Chief and Creative Director."

The elevator doors opened and I hastily pushed my way past him, making my way over to another smaller desk. Atop it was a small, slimline silver laptop and a vase of sunflowers. A blonde woman sat behind the wooden structure, picking at her chicken salad. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of the meat and glanced over my shoulder, relieved to see that the perverted man hadn't followed me. I couldn't see him at all, actually.

"Hi," I said politely, holding my briefcase close to my legs. I could feel the nerves creeping in again. I needed this job. I needed it to pay the rent, to pay for my insurance – to pay for _everything. _"I'm Rachel Berry. I'm applying for the-"

"The vacant assistant's position?" The woman interrupted, flashing me an insincere smile. I weakened slightly at the sight of it. Clearly, I was going to have a hard time making friends if I so happened to get employed. I eyed her badge. It read _Quinn Fabray: Executive Assistant to Mike Chang, Creative Director at Playboy Magazine. _

"Yes," I replied.

She stood; looking only slightly annoyed at having her lunch interrupted, and led me past the few desks occupying the large room. There were only a few employees scattered across the expanse. It seemed that this level was mostly reserved for the big-shots. She stopped at a closed door, knocking twice before peering inside and whispering, "Your twelve o'clock is here, Mr. Puckerman."

"Already?" I heard a man mutter, "Someone's fucking keen."

Quinn ducked out again and beckoned for me to enter the office. I did so, my hands shaking with nerves. _Please, please, please,_ please_ let this go well. _

She shut the door behind me, leaving me alone with my potential employer.

"Well, if it isn't little Miss I'm-Not-Your-Possession."

I jumped, looking at the man behind the desk for the first time since I'd walked into the room. I'd been expected someone so different. A middle-aged man with a piano-patterned tie and a head of balding hair. Then I remembered that it was _Playboy _magazine_, _not _Save Money: Get Rich Faster Than Your Wife Hit Menopause._

"Oh gosh," I said under my breath. I was frozen like a deer in headlights. I had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. The perverted guy in the elevator was the man who made the decision as to whether or not I'd be in debt this time next month. "I am so, _so _sorry."

The reality of my predicament hit me for the first time. Cleaning squished potato from the floors of my local McDonalds was inevitable. I felt like I was going to cry. Yet… he was still to say something.

"Calm your fuckin' farm," he smirked, leaning back in his large black chair. "I'm here to interview you on your credentials, not on your personality," he paused and winked, "That part'll come later."

We stared at each other for a long moment and I found myself thinking that he _knew _I had no credentials. He just wanted to mess with me. When he narrowed his eyes at me, albeit only for a split second, I knew I was right. "So, sit down."

I tip-toed over to the chair in front of his desk and did as he had instructed, placing my briefcase on my lap so that he could in no way look up my skirt. I'd always had a problem with sitting in an unlady-like fashion. It was caught on camera and published on a Broadway fan-run website that one of the Hot Box girls of _Guys and Dolls 2009 _had flashed the audience her rather inelegant Bonds low-riders. Santana had abused me for my childish choice of undergarments for years, but I just couldn't feel comfortable in anything that had lace. It was scratchy and quite frankly anything that could even _attempt_ to give me a wedgie was something – or someone, as I'd learned in high school - I stayed away from.

"Rachel Berry, right?" He asked, placing his hands behind his head. I nodded slowly. "I'm Noah Puckerman, Editor in Chief of _Playboy, _as you would probably know considering-" he paused, shuffling through the papers on his desk and finding my cover letter, my resume attached to the back, "And I quote; _You've wanted this job your whole life."_

I squirmed uncomfortably.

"Tell me, Rachel, what kind of six year old girl dreams of working at a pornography based magazine?"

He was messing with me. There was no doubt about it.

"An emotionally irresponsible one?" I whispered, unsure of what to say. It had sounded right at the time. I'd been a little tipsy when writing the introduction to my cover letter. Of course, Santana had soon enough slipped me Tequila and shoved _Funny Girl _in the DVD player in celebration of the audition I'd _supposedly_ had that day. I was a lost cause after that. My writing, naturally, had improved the next morning when I'd had the chance to sober up with some Hash Browns and a homemade Soy Milkshake. But I hadn't bothered to re-read the introduction before I'd sent it off to the correct email address. I'd just _had_ to watch the sequel to my favourite movie of all time.

"Or Carmen Electra?" I guessed.

He didn't laugh that time. "Why do you want this job, Rachel?"

_For the money, _my conscience supplied. I would never volunteer to spend my time at a place like _Playboy Enterprises. _The employees were a bunch of sexist pigs with nothing better to do than ogle at the anatomy of a woman.

"I believe in Hugh Hefner's vision," I lied, "World sexuality."

He raised his eyebrows and placed my resume back on the desk. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Go on."

I gulped. "Hugh Hefner started _Playboy _with the intention to empower women. I believe in that-"

"I know. You told me in the elevator."

I looked down. "Yeah, about that… I really _am_ sorry-"

"Save it," he sighed, "Keep going."

"Well," I started. I was unsure what to say next. I realised that I really should have spent more time preparing for the interview. Kurt and Blaine and their three steps hadn't been nearly enough. I should have researched more thoroughly.

I trailed off, my eyes drifting from the face of the man before me. _Oh well, _I thought, _I'm not going to get this job anyway. _I was struggling for my next words when I noticed the display behind Noah Puckerman's head. The wall was huge, covered from the ceiling to the floor with every centrefold shoot that had ever been published. Although almost all of them were provocative, in comparison the earlier ones were very innocent. I made a quick observation.

"Anyway, as I was saying. I believe in the empowerment of women, as Hugh Hefner does. But this magazine," I stopped, searching for the right words, "It has changed."

He was intrigued, if only slightly. "How has it changed?"

"Women aren't empowered by _Playboy, _anymore. They're demoralised and depicted as sex objects," I finished. I was a little bit proud of myself, even though I knew that he'd be crazy to hire me. For a moment, I'd sounded like a real writer.

The man before me ran a hand through his short brown hair. I heard a strange sound, reminiscent of laughter. Within seconds, I realised that it actually _was_.

"Why are you laughing at me?" I asked, my cheeks growing hot.

"No offence, babe," he chuckled, "But I'm not sure you understand what sells. Sex sells. Just like I'm not gonna fuck a girl with a nice _personality. _Sure, it's a bonus but I'm not exactly after what's on the inside, ya know?"

"I don't understand how that relates to this magazine," I retorted.

He stood up and made his way over to the back wall, pointing at a shoot from the early days of the magazine. "See this? Sure, it's a girl in a bathing suit. It sold back then," he said, moving across to the more recent photographs, "This here's a completely naked babe. It sells even better."

I shook my head. "You don't understand what I'm trying to say-"

"Oh, but I do. You see, I've been dealing with women like you since I started running this magazine - which was a solid two years ago. Everyday I've got some crack-pot feminist lesbian coming into my office, telling me how to run _my _magazine. You're all too hopped up on your morals and ethics to realise that _Playboy Enterprises _is a business. We merely provide the buyers with what sells."

I couldn't think of anything to say other than, "I'm not a lesbian."

Noah Puckerman laughed and sat back down at his desk. "Oh, I know, babe. You've been checking me out for the last five minutes."

I felt my cheeks colour with both annoyance and embarrassment. "I have not. I'm a professional, after all."

"An actress, actually."

_Oh. _I looked down. If I had had any hope left of acquiring the job, I'd lost it now. "How did you know about that?"

"I've got connections, Rachel Berry. I have somebody thoroughly check out every resume I'm sent. I know you've never worked in the publishing industry before."

I grasped the handle of my briefcase tighter. "Okay," I mumbled, slowly getting to my feet, "I guess I'll just go then…"

"Sit down," he muttered, throwing me a casual smirk. I was about to reject that idea when he sent me a glare. I sat down promptly.

"I don't understand. If you know that I'm not qualified then why won't you let me leave and save me the embarrassment-?"

"I like you, Rachel," he said simply, "You've got spunk."

I tried not to send him a glare of my own.

"But mostly, I know you're not going to allow me to sleep with you. I need that in an assistant. They keep falling in love with me and I have no idea how to stop them, so I do all I _can _do."

I scoffed. "What? Have them killed?"

"Close," he smirked, "I have them fired."

When I didn't say or do anything in reply, he stood up from his chair and made his way around to sit on the desk directly in front of me. I made sure that he couldn't see down my blouse. For all I knew the man had x-ray vision.

"So, I'm making you an offer. I'll have Quinn teach you how to be an assistant and you can have a job here, regardless of the fact that there are far more deserving and _better_ applicants out there-"

"You're not exactly making it sound as if I'm wanted," I muttered.

He ignored me. "But you have to promise me that you won't fall in love with me or any of that crazy shit, alright?"

I rolled my eyes and eyed him with disgust. Sure, he was a delectable piece of man-candy if I ever did see one – okay, Santana taught me that expression – but he was a slime-ball. I'd have no trouble with his offer.

"Deal," I agreed.

We shooks hands. I could already see my four-story Beverly Hills mansion and new black, shiny and freshly polished Range Rover. Maybe even a pool with about ten hot pool boys. Oh, and perhaps tickets to-

But I stopped myself from day-dreaming. I'd gotten myself into a big mess for this job. First, I would focus on paying off my rent.


	2. Sacrifices, But Not The Cult Virgin Kind

A/N: Was so happy to see all of your responses to the first chapter! As a result, I will surely be continuing this. I'm sorry for the long wait but I've been very busy. My school holidays start in two days, though, so I'll be writing more frequently very soon. Enjoy and please keep up your fabulous reviews.

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><p>I rushed into my apartment, slammed the door behind me and ran to the kitchen counter where I let Santana's briefcase fall to the floor. I reached for the phone, quickly dialling Kurt's number. I couldn't wait to brag. I had a successful job – no, a <em>stable<em> job. Kurt had never had that before. I grinned and twirled the phone cord in-between my fingers, kicking my legs up and onto the counter as I always did when my roommate wasn't home. I waited impatiently, listening for the morbid greeting Kurt always used, "No, she's dead. This is her son."

Ring…

I bit my lip. Not now, Kurt. _Not now._

Ring…

_Oh, come _on.

Ring…

The one time _I _called _him_ first and he didn't pick up. Perfect.

I slammed the phone back onto the receiver, flinging my legs back onto the ground and stomping my way into the bedroom that Kurt and I shared. I threw myself onto the bed and groaned.

I had procured a new job but I didn't have anyone to brag about it to.

Santana would be upset that I'd lied to her in the first place by saying that I'd gotten an audition instead - so, obviously, I couldn't tell _her_. My fathers were currently on a romantic and well-deserved holiday in Hawaii. So, naturally, Kurt was all I'd had.

I'd been so excited to listen to his praise.

Sure, my boss was a complete pig and I didn't know a thing about the magazine industry, but it was an employment opportunity. I was going to be able to pay the rent - and comfortably, too. I smiled against my pillow as a thought occurred to me. I was a genius, so I wasn't too surprised that I'd thought of it. My plan was perfect.

I pulled on my shortest skirt and tightest reindeer sweater. My lucky penny-loafers were included for good measure.

I took the stairwell, heading downwards, all the while being careful not to trip and fall because of the way my heart thudded in my rib cage. Butteflies fluttering in my stomach, I made my way to the apartment at the end of the hallway and knocked three times.

My own personal heaven answered the door, bearing a five-o'clock shadow. I tried my best to act casual – even though butterflies were gnawing at my insides.

Finn Hudson lived on the floor below, his apartment was always perfectly clean and the potted Hibiscus flowers by his door were always watered. He was neatly dressed in his classic blue and white checked button-up shirt, tidy black pants and tasteful Italian leather shoes.

Okay, maybe they weren't Italian leather. But I let my mind wander.

The only problem with Finn Hudson was that most of the perfectly neat things about him were courtesy of his _wife_, Sarah. Without her, he would most likely be your average American male. Of course, without Sarah around he would also be married to _me. _Well, in my mind, anyway.

"Hi, Finn," I drawled, leaning against the door frame. He stepped back, his eyes wide as they travelled downwards. I liked to think he was checking me out. "Feel like going for a coffee?"

His eyes snapped upwards and he shifted awkwardly. "Rachel," he replied, kind as always, "I haven't seen you in a while."

I laughed a little too loudly. He looked shocked when I looked back at him, so I toned down the laughter, trailing off awkwardly at the end. "Yes," I mumbled, changing positions against the frame, "I've been- you know, busy."

He nodded with understanding. Finn had heard about my money troubles and had even helped me develop my resume. The resume that I'd used to get my job at _Playboy. _When I looked back on it, I wondered why I'd requested Finn to help me with that sort of document. He was a school teacher – an elementary one, too. It just didn't make sense that I'd gone to him. I wondered if he had realised that too.

"So, how about we go down to Starbucks?"

Finn was a great man. I knew that he would never cheat on his wife. He was always polite and I think he even considered me a close friend. It really didn't help that I'd been in love with him since I met him, a few years back when he was a senior in college and I was a sophomore. I'd met him because Kurt was his stepbrother.

We'd dated, actually. Okay, not for long – in fact, I'm not sure Finn would even class our relationship as a _relationship._ We were both young. He was legal, so he'd taken me out to a few bars and we'd hooked up a few times. It had meant nothing. I had always had to remind myself of that.

It had been pure luck that Kurt and I had chosen to rent the free apartment in his building. I hadn't even realised that Finn lived there for at least three months – when I'd met and befriended his wife, Sarah.

Sarah was a Malibu girl with the perfect smile, a envy-inducing body and legs that went on for days. She was a pleasant woman with family aspirations and a large heart. Her sense of humour was fantastic, too. It really was _incredibly_ unfair. Kurt had never understood why she had married Finn, who was a daft but lovable _buffoon_, in his opinion.

I didn't remain friends with Sarah. After returning home after a night out with her, she had welcomed me inside her apartment and introduced me to her husband Finn – who we'd caught drinking milk straight from the carton at three o'clock in the morning. He'd spat the milk out onto the floor when he'd turned to look at me, but being in my drunken state I'd only giggled.

The next morning was a different story, however. I couldn't face Sarah without blushing or babbling incoherently, so I'd made sure to only call on Finn when I knew she was at work.

"I'd love to, Rach, but I'm doing some marking," he mumbled, "You can come in if you want."

I smiled and nodded before following him inside.

The walls were painted a light pastel blue – a colour that reminded me of summer. In fact, almost everything in the apartment reminded me of summer. I looked at the framed photographs sitting on the bookshelf as I walked past. Most of them were of Sarah and her friends from Malibu, but there were a few from Finn's college days. The largest photo, sitting right in the centre of them all, was the glorified wedding portrait. Sarah looked beautiful in her simple but stylish ivory dress and Finn looked a dream in his slimming black tuxedo. When I looked at that picture, my mind clouded with jealousy. Was it so bad that I imagined a Rabbi in the place of the Minister? Was it so bad that I imagined a shorter, louder, bride with a much larger nose?

Finn led me to the bar by the kitchen and gestured for me to take a seat on one of the white bar stools. I did so, feeling as if my presence were polluting the place. Was it right to continue pursuing Finn's company when I still had feelings for him? How would I feel if I were in Sarah's place and she were in mine?

"Big day, huh?"

I looked up at him and blinked. He was as handsome as ever; all tall and adorable. I nodded. He was behind the bar, in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil – smiling at me the way he had in college.

"Yes. I got a new job."

"Oh," he said, his lips curling up at the corners in a light-hearted fashion. "What musical this time?"

His words hurt more than he could possibly have known. My great mood suddenly vanished into thin air. I no longer wanted to brag. "I- I'm not doing the whole Broadway thing anymore."

Finn's smile drooped. "Why not?"

"I had to stop," I murmured, "I couldn't afford to pay the rent this month."

He looked at loss for words. "But it meant so much to you, Rach-"

I cut him off. "I know."

We sat in silence until the kettle boiled. Finn went on with his work silently, finally pushing a steaming cup of coffee across the bench and into my waiting hands. "So, what are you doing now, then?" He asked.

"I'm working at a magazine. I'm an assistant."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

I nodded.

"Which magazine?"

The one he used to keep hidden under his bed in dormitory, I thought. "I-" I paused and swallowed. I really wished I had thought through my visit. I didn't want to tell him where I worked – I just wanted to say that I, Rachel Berry, finally had a job.

Well, I actually wanted him to reach out across the bar, fold me in his arms and tell me that he was leaving his wife.

But he was a good man. He'd never do that.

"_Playboy," _I forced myself to say.

Finn scoffed and spat out a mouthful of caffeine. Spluttering, he slammed his mug onto the counter and leant forwards, coughing loudly. Unsure what to do, I jumped up from my seat and ran around into the kitchen. He was still struggling for air, so I did all I could think of.

I punched him in the back.

He whirled around as a reflex, flinging his long arms out to the side as he did so. I would have ducked if I'd known better, because one of his hands clobbered me on the nose. I winced at the contact, my eyes suddenly filling with tears. I bit my lip to stop myself from making any noise.

"Shit!" Finn swore, noticing my predicament. He rushed toward me, a look of uncertainty and apology on his face. "Rach, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it."

I knew he hadn't meant it. But that didn't mean it hadn't hurt.

His facial expression turned from one of uncertainty to one of panic. "Oh, God. Is it bleeding?"

I was slowly turning red. How embarrassing. Why couldn't I have been born with a normal sized nose? It was just my luck that I had one that stuck out so damn far. I was lucky this hadn't happened billions of times before.

"Shit. I'll get you some tissues."

He disappeared, a giant running toward the bathroom. I forced myself not to cry. I wouldn't be further embarrassed. I wouldn't. I clutched at my nose and made my way over to the kitchen sink, where I tilted my head down and pinched. He returned a few moments later, an unopened box of tissues in his large hands. He fumbled with the packaging, at first careful, then rough. He tore it open, destroying the cardboard, and wrenched from it a large wad of tissue paper.

I lifted my head and held my hand out, expecting him to place the tissues in my hand. But he didn't. Quietly, without saying anything at all, he pressed them against my nose and gently pushed my head back down.

I couldn't breathe when his hand travelled to support the back of my head. I was bleeding from the nose and he'd just clobbered me big time, but I was still completely absorbed by him. I was such a wanton. He was a married man and still I couldn't get enough.

"Are you okay?" He asked after a few minutes had passed. He sounded concerned and I didn't doubt that he had overreacted and thought that he'd killed me – at least for a split second.

"Yes."

We stayed quiet for a few more moments, the dull tick-tock of the wall clock above the fridge the only thing we could hear. If I concentrated hard enough, it almost sounded like music.

"Do you want to go to the Hospital?"

I laughed quietly, which seemed to disturb him further. Finn had always been a little clueless. "No. I think I'll be okay now, actually."

It pained me to do it, but I pulled away from him. I look the tissues from his hand, my fingers gently grazing his, and wiped my nose. Calmly, I asked him where the bin was. He opened a cupboard under the sink and showed me the secret compartment, even opening the lid for me. I threw the tissues in there and hoped that no blood remained on my face. If it did, Finn didn't say anything.

I returned to the stool and carried the tissue box with me just in case. I took a tiny sip from my mug, savouring the warm feeling that spread throughout me as the coffee travelled down my throat and into my belly. I swallowed.

"I'm really sorry-"

"Its okay, Finn. Really."

He shifted awkwardly, his eyes darting around the kitchen. I noticed the way they lingered on the photographs stuck on the fridge. They were all shots of him and Sarah. I looked away. I was going to make myself depressed if I let myself get too hung up on him.

"_Playboy _magazine."

It was a statement; not a question. I didn't exactly know how to feel about his tone. He sounded surprised - stunned, even. I was too.

"I didn't think that was your kinda thing," he mumbled, "I mean, you always told me all that stuff about feminism."

I nodded and swallowed some more coffee. "I didn't really have much of a choice. I need money, and I need it now. I don't get to be picky."

Mimicking my actions without realising, he also nodded and took a swig from his mug. Then, without saying anything, he left the room to go and collect his marking work. After a while, he returned with a bunch of untidy blue binders in his arms. They overflowed onto the bench top, almost knocking over my mug. Fortunately, I yanked it away just in time. He didn't realise his destructive powers.

The stool next to me creaked as Finn sat down on it. I almost laughed when I glanced at him and realised that he now wore glasses. He was so similar, yet so different to me. In college, Finn had loved nothing more than sport. He had been sure that he would go on and play football professionally until his body could no longer handle it. He had assumed that after that he would become a high school coach.

At some point in time, after I'd said goodbye to him when he'd graduated, Finn had lost that dream. Or perhaps something else had happened. I didn't know. All I knew was that he had never told me he'd wanted to be a teacher. Then again, I'd never told anyone I wanted to be an Executive Assistant. Because I had never wanted to be that - in fact, I _still_ didn't want to be. We had both made sacrifices.

He sat silently, unenthusiastically scribbling grades on a bunch of messy crayon drawings. They were all kinds of crazy; featuring people with three legs, burning houses and unicorns.

"What are they?" I asked. My voice was soft. It drove me insane that I spoke like that around him; like I was fragile. I wanted him to notice me. I wanted things to be romantic between us. I wanted it so badly that I pretended to be weak and vulnerable. I wanted a knight in shining armour. And I wanted that knight to be him – even if he would look slightly ridiculous on a horse.

"Pictures my third grade class drew. They're meant to be of their dream jobs, but I don't think they really understood the topic," he chuckled. His glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them up almost absentmindedly. I found my eyes lingering on the shape of his lips. They, at least, hadn't changed.

I stopped myself. Dragging my eyes away, I cleared my throat. "You mean to say that these kids want to be unicorns when they grow up?"

He didn't seem to get that I had been joking. "I've got no idea. I stopped understanding them a long time ago."

I forced myself to look at the bar counter. It was made of some sort of fancy, expensive Granite. The marble patterns twirled and swirled into one another. I admired them. Kurt and I didn't have anything like that in our apartment. Everything was cheap linoleum.

"Do you remember Brittany Pierce?"

He stopped scribbling. "The girl who thought her cat read her diary? If so, I can totally see her drawing worse than the kids in my class."

I laughed. "Yes. Her."

"Yeah, I remember Brit. She was great."

"You know, out of all of the popular girls, she befriended me first," I said. College hadn't been high school – but it had been nearly as bad. Kurt and I had been bullied from day one. Luckily, it had improved drastically once we started our junior year.

"Remember Santana Lopez?"

I coughed, unable to look him in the eye. "Yes."

"Of course you'd remember. She was a bitch to you."

I'd never told Finn about Santana and I.

I swallowed, uncomfortable. It was true that I had been her Public Enemy Number One throughout my first two years of college. She'd hated my guts and I'd hated hers – but then she'd changed. Or maybe I'd changed. Either way, somehow, we'd ended up best friends.

Finn and I continued our conversation for what felt like an hour. Finally, I decided that I should return home. We stopped by the door of his apartment, spoke a few innocent goodbyes and participated in an awkward hug. As I took the fight of stairs back up to my apartment, my fingers found the bruises starting to form around my nose. I remembered the way he'd held the tissue for me - not even slightly disgusted by the bleeding - and thought that maybe a horrifically swollen nose had been worth it. I was in love with Finn Hudson. I couldn't really deny it.

* * *

><p>"You don't know how to touch-type."<p>

The blonde woman, Quinn, stared at me with contempt. It was my first day in the _Playboy Enterprises _building as an official employee and I'd been paired with her for the next eight hours. She was meant to be teaching me about the company but instead she'd been grilling me for the last half hour. It had started out being about my bruised nose and whether or not I was secretly part of a giant lesbian wrestling colony - which I had found highly offensive, as not all lesbians enjoyed _wrestling - _but had recently progressed to being about my inhability to type correctly.

"Let me get this straight, you have never - in your _life –_ learnt to touch-type."

I shrugged. I really didn't see what the big deal was. "No. My boss said you'd teach me, though."

Quinn shook her head. "Oh, no. I won't be teaching you. I have my own work to do, too, regardless of what _he _says."

I eyed her hands as she filed her nails to perfection with a pink, sparkly nail file. I tried to resist telling her that it didn't seem as if she had any work to do. "So, um, when are we going to go on a tour-?"

She cut me off with an evil glare. Slowly, she opened her red-painted lips and hissed, "We aren't. Unless _Puck _wants to show you around, you're not seeing anything except for these four walls."

I swallowed. "Are you two involved?" I choked out. I'd been observing her behaviour throughout our conversation and it seemed to be the most obvious explanation. Although, maybe they _had _been involved and it had ended. That seemed even more obvious.

Her harsh gaze only became sharper. "Why would you ask me that, intern?"

She had insisted on referring to me as an intern since I'd arrived that morning. At first, I'd tried to correct her, but then I'd realised that she wasn't going to let up. I'd accepted it. "It's just the way you talk about him," I explained, "It's like you're angry at him for something."

"Yeah, well, he should learn to keep it in his pants when he's around the centrefolds," she snapped and slammed the nail file against her desk. "I've been nothing but faithful to him."

I bit my lip. I didn't think that my new boss – who had uttered one sentence to me that morning before promptly locking himself in his office with an Asian model – thought of Quinn like she thought of him. I decided not to say anything about that, though. I wanted Quinn to like me. She seemed to be respected around the office and I envied her for it, so I hoped to gain popularity by association. I wasn't going to get that if I got on her nerves, though, so I took a different approach.

"Men like…" I paused, "_Puck-"_

For the first time that day, Quinn looked remotely interested in what I had to say. I almost grinned.

"Well, Quinn, men like _him_ just don't know how to handle strong, respected women. They feel lost and they act out to get their attention. He's just trying to make you jealous."

The blonde seemed thoughtful. "Maybe," she said, pensive. Suddenly, her blue eyes sparkled. "You know what, intern? I think you may have more potential than I'd previously thought."

"Thank you-?"

"Come on, I want to introduce you to someone."

She didn't give me time to object. Hurriedly, she pushed herself up from her chair and _click-clacked_ her way to the elevator. I followed, hurrying to keep up. It was within my first hour at _Playboy _that I had discovered that being short was a huge handicap – running after _glamazons_ like Quinn Fabray was hard work.

"Who are we going to see?" I asked, breathless, as we stopped at the silver metal doors. She pressed the 'up' button – something that I hadn't even thought possible. I had assumed that the offices of the Editor in Chief and Creative Director would be on the top floor of the building.

"Satan," she said, simply, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

We stepped into the elevator. I was gaping. _Satan? _Did people actually name their children _Satan? _What had the world come to?

Quinn pressed a button on the control panel and stepped back, leaning against the wall. I didn't. I was too on edge.

The automated female voice that commandeered the elevator system sounded all around us. "Level Forty-Two: Office of the Company Director."

* * *

><p>AN: The first reviewer to guess who 'Satan' is wins a prize! A super cool, completely free prize that recquires me to do nothing but sit back in awe. That's right, _my respect_. The best prize to ever be given to anyone. Go on, make a guess, you know you want to! (Clue: It's a character already featured on Glee, obviously.)


	3. Welcome To The Dark Side

A/N: Hi! Thank you all for reviewing the previous chapter. I would like to mention 'ajunebuga' who was the first reviewer to rightfully guess who 'Satan' is. I have to say that I'd thought I'd been cleverer with hiding who it was but so many of you guessed correctly! You're too smart for me, I guess. Anyway, I know it's been a very long two weeks but here's a new chapter of _The Contract._

* * *

><p>The elevator doors opened with a <em>whoosh <em>and I immediately peeked past Quinn, trying to catch a glimpse of this 'Satan' character. I could see only an empty room, though. Slightly let down, I followed her out of the confines of the metal shaft, the sound of her high heels echoing throughout the wide expanse. I glanced down at my own shoes. They had heels, too, but not like hers did. She had to have grown at least four inches with them on.

I found myself surrounded by large, incredibly provocative wall-hangings. Quinn seemed unfazed as she glanced at them, as though she'd seen them a million times before. I supposed she had. I, however, felt extremely uncomfortable. I ducked my head as we continued on to an empty desk sitting at the end of the office of grandeur.

The wallpaper around us was the sort of wallpaper I associated with elegance. The wall-hangings were a contrast to the furniture, which held a regal air. The room screamed '_money, __money, __money_' and I was as jealous as I had ever been.

Quinn had seated herself at the desk and was currently looking through the papers atop it. I stood back, wary, and watched her. "Uh," I started cautiously, "Are you meant to be doing that?"

"No," she replied. Then, she looked up at me mischievously, her green eyes flashing. "But I'm sure Santana won't mind."

I blanched. "Santana?"

"She's the Company Director. We went to high school with one another. We were on the cheerleading squad," she replied haughtily.

I shrugged off her words. Sure, my best friend was also Santana, but that didn't mean she was the _same_ Santana. Santana had been working as a prosecutor for years. She wouldn't lie to me. Besides, there was bound to be more than person with her name of in New York City.

"So, are we just going to wait here?" I asked, trying not to appear uncomfortable.

"That's the plan, intern."

We waited. Quinn continued to shuffle through the seemingly important pieces of paper, so I occupied myself by observing the décor of the room. There didn't seem to be any giveaway signs that this Santana was _my _Santana, yet somehow I couldn't rid myself of the sneaking suspicion that it _was _her. How would I deal with it if it was? Would I pretend to be shocked? She'd know that I'd lied to her, too. I needed to calm down. I couldn't let Quinn see me like this. My job was officially of a higher rank than hers was, so I needed to get a grip. I was going to impress this woman, whoever she was, and I was going to be the best assistant Noah Puckerman had ever known.

But I wasn't going to give him sexual favours.

Reluctantly, I let my eyes wander over to the bookshelf in the far corner. My feet followed my gaze and before I knew it, I was having a right old snoop. The bookshelf was filled to the brim with _Playboy _back issues, the sight of which stirred guiltiness deep within me. Was I kidding myself? I would never fit in at my new workplace.

I was scanning the back issues when I afforded myself a curious peek at the framed photographs on the top shelf. When I noticed who starred in them, I gasped audibly.

"What?" Quinn snapped, lifting her glare from the papers she was currently holding. "What is it?"

"Nothing," I replied automatically, not turning to look at her. She grumbled a little about my incompetence and returned to her own prying. I tried not to breathe too quickly as I stared at photo after photo, recognising myself and others that I knew among the printed memories.

There was a photo of our college graduation; Santana in Sam's embrace, I hugging Kurt and Brittany in joy. We were all wearing those silly graduation caps and our ceremonial robes. Also present were photos of Santana and I at various parties and get-togethers. There were photos of her and Sam at Finn and Sarah's wedding – Sam and Finn were best friends – and pictures of Santana's engagement party, which had occurred two years ago because they wanted to wait a few years before they blew all of their savings on the actual wedding.

My hand travelled up to gently tap one of the photo frames. They couldn't possibly be real, could they? They couldn't be. They just couldn't.

"Quinn," sounded a voice I knew only too well. I jumped and turned towards the direction it came from, only to be rewarded with the sight of my best friend. She was dressed impeccably, as per usual, in her tailored black skirt and blazer combo. Her long, black hair was pulled up into a high pony and her make-up was minimal. I'd always seen her as a lawyer when she dressed this way. Now, I saw her as a notorious businesswoman.

"Santana," Quinn replied, hastily standing up. She tried to look innocent, as if she hadn't been prying about in the other girl's paperwork. They hadn't noticed me yet, although Quinn would surely introduce me in a matter of moments. I had to run. I had to do something. I couldn't just stand there and wait for her to notice me! She'd lied to me, and to Sam, and to Kurt and Blaine and _everyone._

I'd lied too, but it was different.

"What are you doing here?" Santana asked. Her voice was cool, calm and collected. She didn't sound like herself. "I see you've been through my papers."

Quinn looked nervous, but only for a second. It seemed that she wasn't afraid of the Latina. They had a strong friendship, I realised. I'd thought I'd had one with Santana, too. But obviously not, considering she'd lied to my face almost every day since college. "Of course I have. I'm a fabulous assistant."

Santana scoffed and for a moment I was reminded of _my _Santana, _my _best friend. But Santana wasn't what she seemed to be. "Yeah, right, tell that to Mike. He's been wondering where you've been all morning."

"I'm helping," Quinn replied, "I'm showing Puck's new assistant the ropes."

Thankfully, they still hadn't afforded me a glance. I had time to calm myself – at least a little bit. How had she gotten away with it? Where had she been on all of those days when she'd claimed to be at Stanford Law?

"So, he's got another slut has he? Fucking brilliant." Santana smirked, settling down in her desk chair. Me? A _slut? _Ouch. I tried to hide behind the bookshelf, although it really didn't matter. They weren't interested in what I was doing.

"Not exactly," the blonde muttered. She leant down to whisper in Santana's ear, something that sounded vaguely like; _she __can__'__t __even __touch-type._

"Right. Well, why'd you bring her here then?"

I gulped and hid my face behind a wall of my wavy brunette locks. I wished that I didn't need the money so badly. I could just walk out and pretend that I'd never seen anything. I could return to my blissful, ignorant life and pretend that everyone around me wasn't lying about their careers. How _could_ she? She'd lied to me for _years. _I couldn't even comprehend _how _she'd managed it, let alone _why _she'd done it in the first place.

"Aside from her inexperience, she's promising."

Santana made an uninterested sound. "What's this ones name?"

"Rachel Berry."

I winced and slowly turned toward them, lifting my eyes to meet Santana's with defiance. "Yes?" I questioned. My voice sounded a lot stronger than I felt.

My best friend's eyes widened upon recognising me. She struggled for words and for a moment I felt smug. "Quinn," she finally spat out, "Could you give us a moment alone, please?"

The blonde seemed a little taken aback – not to mention confused. Silently, she nodded and sent me small sneer as she went to go and wait in what I presumed was Santana's bathroom.

I wouldn't look away from Santana. I wouldn't look weak. I met her eyes with confidence as she raised her eyebrows at me. For a moment, I wondered if we were both going to burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. But we didn't. We only stared. "So… an audition, huh?" She quipped, referring to my previous lie.

I crossed my arms and made myself seem as imposing as I possibly could. My petite stature and large doe-eyes didn't help my cause. "I was going to tell you in a week or so. I couldn't say the same for you, Miss Company Director."

Santana seemed to be at loss for words again. Eventually, she returned to her quick witted self. "I didn't think it mattered. Both my jobs, my real and my fake one, are equally boring."

"You didn't think it mattered?" I snapped. Santana and I argued often, so she didn't flinch at my tone. I wondered if Quinn would have if she had still been present. She was probably eavesdropping, though, I realised. "Does _Sam _know?" I hissed.

"Of course not," she said quickly. "He wouldn't approve of a job like this."

I wasn't offended in the slightest. "I'm pretty sure that he wouldn't mind, San. He's a personal trainer. Not exactly a priest."

She shrugged. "There's a lot of things Sam doesn't know about me. I'd like to keep it that way."

There was a warning laced in her words; and for a moment I was reminded of the old Santana. The Santana who had called me cruel names and made sure I'd never made new friends in college. The Santana who had tried to steal Finn and countless other suitors away from me. The Santana who had hated me and who I had hated in return. But then she smiled at me and I forgot about the old Santana. She was still my closest friend.

And then that smile turned into a smirk.

"What?" I snapped, "What sordid, _evil_ plan are you hatching?"

She sat back in her chair and crossed her right leg over her left. How she did that with her black, strappy stilettos was beyond me. "This is perfect timing," she whispered to herself, "Why didn't I think of telling you the truth sooner?"

I sent her a glare. "I don't know, maybe because you're a horrible best friend?"

"Oh, shut up," she told me. She hadn't meant it cruelly but I still took offense – I was Rachel Berry after all. "This is fucking fantastic."

I tried to remain glaring at her but I couldn't help it when my expression turned to one of curiosity. "What is?" I asked.

"Puckerman's a Jew; _you__'__re_ a Jew."

I raised my eyebrows. "Yes. And?"

She hadn't stopped talking. "And your _legs_," she said, "He won't be able to resist! Why didn't I think of this before? I can control you."

"Excuse me? You cannot control me."

It was her turn to raise her eyebrows. "Really, Rach? Don't you remember what happened in Cancun?"

I remembered. Oh, did I remember. "Yes," I said quietly, "_That _happened."

"Well, you wouldn't have turned into that little sexual deviant and gone after that fancy-pants rich boy if I hadn't hypnotised you with my Santana powers before hand."

I gaped. "You did not convince me to do any of that!"

"I _so _did."

I stomped my foot against the expensive mahogany flooring because I loved the drama of it. "Damn it," I groaned, "You're right. You really did."

She smirked. "So, first off, you're gonna want to know why I want Puckerman out of this fucking business."

I blanched; all drama forgotten for now. "B-but San… he's my boss."

"No, Rach. _I__'__m _your boss."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Oh."

She chuckled and continued. "I want Puckerman out of here because he's a _threat. _I worked my way up the ladder here; pulling myself up off of the bottom floor and all the way to the top. I'm respected. I'm feared. And along comes this _man-__" _Much to my surprise, she slammed her fist on the table in a very dramatic way. I wondered if she'd gotten the idea from my foot-stamping. "Along comes this man who sleeps his way to success. I admit, I would have done it back in college, but I'm a different woman. I have self-respect and quite honestly none of the guys here would satisfy me like Sam does with his-"

"Okay," I said quickly, cutting her off, "I get it. Sam's great in bed. You've told me only a million times. It's the thing I hear the most other than complaints about his comic book obsessions."

"And that movie _Avatar,__" _she sighed, rolling her eyes. "You'd think that nearly ten years later he'd be over that fucking film."

I shrugged. "I don't know. Some movies never get old, like-"

"_Funny __Girl_," she whined in a pathetic impersonation of my voice. "I know, I know, Rach. Your love affair with good ol' Babs is never ending."

I scowled.

"Anyway," she started again, "I don't want Puckerman stealing my job. So, naturally, I want him fired."

"I'm sorry, San. I really don't know what I could-"

"I'll get to that. You see, what I really need is a big publicist's nightmare. Puckerman's not only the Editor in Chief of _Playboy Magazine_. He's also the son of the late Sarah Puckerman."

I tried not to gasp too audibly. I wondered how I hadn't put two and two together. Kurt left enough celebrity gossip magazines around the apartment that I should have been a deity of celebrity culture. Sarah Puckerman was legendary. Now that I thought about it, I could see the family resemblance. I wondered if my bosses hair would be curly, too, if he grew it out long enough. I thought it would be a rather funny sight.

"Really?" I whispered when I regained my ability to speak. "I loved her in her last film."

"She was a hag," Santana said mercilessly.

The woman had been a famous actress; earning an Oscar for her final film a few months after her untimely death in a plane crash. Her children, Noah and Jasmine, had accepted her Best Actress award almost indifferently. That had been four years ago now. "Honestly, the woman made me look like a harmless puppy. She was a nightmare for her agent. I'm sure they had a party after her funeral – and not a mournful one either."

"I don't think you should be saying that so loud," I warned her, "Quinn is in the next room. I think she's involved with Noah."

"Of course she is," she muttered, "Quinn's always thrown herself at whatever – or, rather, whoever – can get her to the top. If she just so happened to end up married to Noah Puckerman, she'd be one of New York's biggest socialites. It started with her obsession with becoming Prom Queen in high school and it's ended up as what it is now. Don't get me wrong, I like the girl and everything, but I don't trust her like I trust you."

I supposed I should have felt a little smug. Strangely, I didn't. "I don't know, San. She seemed like she liked him a lot."

"I'm not surprised." She reached for her packet of cigarettes and lit one; taking a long drag before giving me a pointed look. She knew I hated her smoking around me. I'd figured that it was another lawyer thing – but now I obviously knew that that wasn't the case. "Puckerman does have a way with women. Normal women, that is. But I know _you _won't fall into his traps."

I shook my head, trying to grasp what she was hinting at. "I don't understand," I said, finally.

"I thought you were the smart one," she smirked. I coughed as her tobacco smoke billowed in my face. I glared at her and she grumpily put her cancer-stick out in her ashtray. Then, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair, she presented the plan. "I want you to make Noah Puckerman fall in love with you."

I felt like we'd taken a step back and forgone our friendship for a partnership of a slave and her master. "What?" I hissed.

"I know you can do it. If I teach you how to dress again, like I did in Cancun, then I'm sure you could pull it off. And you're an actress, right? You can do this easily."

I struggled for words. "I know you're my best friend, San, but I don't know why I'd do it. I'm sure you won't lose your job-"

"I _will _lose it," she assured me. For a moment I saw a weakness in her; something that told me that this job meant more to her than anyone really knew. "I know I will. He's everything this company needs. He's a fucking top shit Editor in Chief and I'm sure he'll be fucking amazing at my job, too."

"I don't think I can," I told her sincerely. "It's just not _me _to scheme_.__"_

She laughed at that one. "Please. Your middle name is 'Scheme'."

"Actually, it's Barbra-"

"I know, Rach. I'm your best friend for a reason."

She sent me that look; her eyes all wide and innocent, her bottom lip trembling slightly. Santana didn't use 'the look' often. In fact, I'd only seen it used once - when Sam had broken up with her for the first and only time three years ago. I knew that this time, however, she was using it on purpose.

"Why did you lie to me about your job?" I asked her.

I saw her eyes widen further and her hand itch toward her box of expensive cigarettes. I wished she'd quit. She was shortening her life-span; destroying her lungs. She withdrew her outstretched fingertips when she noticed where my antagonised stare fell. "I didn't want you to give me your disappointed face."

I didn't know how to respond to that one. "Sorry?"

"You know… that look you give people that you feel sorry for. You're giving it to me now."

I tried to make my face appear neutral. "I am not."

"You were. Now you just look constipated."

Neither of us laughed like we usually would have.

"I _did _go to Stanford," she insisted, "At least for a little while."

She took a deep breath and I waited patiently for her to continue. "I just couldn't do it. I didn't _want _to be a prosecutor like daddy. I wanted to boss people around and things like that, sure, but I just wasn't good at Law. I tried to host parties and things there but the people there were way too serious to even know what fun is."

I knew one thing for sure; Santana hated fun-killers.

"Then I met the Business students; people who were controlling and manipulative like me. Most of them knew how to have a good time. I stayed in Law school for the rest of the year and ended up transferring. I _was _going to tell everyone eventually. It's just that when Sam proposed to me; he said something about how much of an amazing lawyer I was going to be. He seemed so happy, you know? I didn't want to say anything and ruin his day. Then his day turned into his year and here we are two years later, and he still doesn't know."

I shook my head. "I understand why you transferred. I just don't understand why you kept it a secret from everyone at the time."

"My parents still don't know," she said quietly, "I couldn't tell daddy. I made sure that he never found out that the Stanford bills had changed format and everything was fine. He would be ferocious if he knew. It's always been our thing; Law. I don't think he'd understand that I just didn't love it like he did."

"I'm sure everyone would understand-"

"I can't say anything now. They'll know that I've lied to them for so long. I'll lose Sam and I'll probably lose my parents, too."

I didn't know how to respond. I wasn't about to tell her that she'd done the right thing – in fact, what she'd done had been stupid and completely unnecessary – but I wasn't about to reject her friendship, either. I made my way around the desk and pulled her into a hug. When she leant down and rest her head on my shoulder, I swore that I could feel salty tears soak through onto my blouse. I didn't say anything, though, because I knew Santana Lopez would never admit to crying over such a thing.

"Please don't tell anyone," she whispered.

I wanted everyone to know. I really, really did. However bad Santana thought she had failed her father, she still had an extremely successful job. Probably even more successful than the job she'd led us to believe she had. But I wouldn't betray her trust. She was right – Sam hated liars. The reason that they'd broken up for that short period of time three years ago was because she had lied to him.

"Don't worry. I won't say anything to anyone."

I unwrapped my arms from around her and watched as she hastily tried to fix her pristine attire. Her hair was still in perfect condition, although I could tell mine was all over the place thanks to her height.

"Thanks," she said, recovering, "I knew I'd made a good choice when I stopped hating you back in college."

I laughed uneasily. "Yes."

"So," she began, shuffling the papers on her desk once more in an attempt to distract herself. "You gonna help me or what?"

I paused. "I really mean it when I say I can't."

"Why not?" She snapped, eyeing me carefully. "You're not ditching your best friend for _Puckerman_, are you?"

I quickly shook my head. Then, realising that _yes, __I __technically __was, _I started to nod. "I don't know," I said finally. I stopped my erratic head movements. "The only reason that he gave me this job was because I promised not to fall in love with him."

Santana smirked and threw her hands up in the air. "Well, that's it then, isn't it? I guess you're on Team Santana."

I stared at her, puzzled. "No. Did you even listen to me? He'll fire me if I go along with your plan. I can't fall in love with him."

"Exactly," she chuckled, "My plan is to make _him_ fall in love with _you._ I never said anything about you doing the same thing."

"Yes, but, wouldn't I have to pretend to reciprocate his feelings - even a little - so that he would fall for me?" I questioned her blankly.

The Latina snorted. "That's bullshit, Rach. I was in love with my dentist Dr. Carl and never once did he make a move on me. Well, unless it was when I was under the anaesthesia. And he sure as hell knew that I certainly wouldn't have minded if he got his rape on-"

I waved a hand at her to stop her before I had to cover my ears to block out her words. "Please stop," I snapped. Then, "What's in it for me?"

Santana stared at me, her eyes wide. "Well, you can have my deepest respect-"

"I already have that," I replied, surprising both her and myself, "What else are you offering?"

She seemed to be deep in thought. "I guess Puckerman would be able to help you with your acting career._ I_ can't really offer you anything. I don't have money to give away and nor do I have the kind of connections he has – although I _do_ have the better job. He must still be in contact with his mother's agent. If you can make him fall in love with you then I'm sure he'll do anything to make you happy."

My stomach tightened in anticipation as I thought about pursuing my Broadway dreams again. I'd never wanted to let them go, although poverty had forced me to. I knew that I could be a star if only I were given the chance. Noah Puckerman was that chance. And I wasn't Rachel Berry if I didn't take every opportunity that was thrown at me – even if it questioned my morals.

"You haven't mentioned the rest of your plan," I stated.

Santana's lips curled up at the corners; revealing a smile that could probably make babies cry. It wasn't ugly – it was just terrifying. "Well, obviously we're going to take him for everything he has."

"How so?" I questioned. I didn't believe for a second that what I was doing was ethical. I would never have done it if Broadway hadn't been mentioned. Santana had made a fabulous point. If Sarah Puckerman's agent couldn't get me work, I didn't know who could. I was a great actress; I knew it better than anyone. I could pull this off. I could make Noah Puckerman fall in love with me.

"You date him for a while and show him what love is like. I guarantee he'll propose to you within the year."

My grin fell. "What?" I snapped, "I didn't know I had to _marry _the guy!"

Santana looked at me as if I were stupid. "It's the best thing I can think of. You get to keep half of his possessions when you divorce him, and the press will believe your side of the story if you make yourself likeable enough."

I couldn't reach my jaw as it had fallen to the floor. "Are you actually serious?" I gawked. "You cannot be serious, San. This is just _too_ far. I don't even think a man like him _could _fall in love. He's a player, a sexist pig-"

"He's done it before, Rach. He fell in love big time before he got the job here. Don't you remember back when we were in college? He went off of the rails when he got dumped by his fiancé; Mercedes Jones."

"Mercedes Jones?" I whispered; awestruck. "As in… _the _Mercedes Jones?"

"The one and only," Santana said, giving me a knowing look. "The woman hailed as the next Aretha. He loved her, but she left him for that Packer's linebacker. Guy's name was Bubba or something equally fucking weird. Puckerman was devastated. I understand why. I mean, have you seen that Bubba guy? He must have felt real shit about himself after being dumped for _that.__"_

"They fell in love, though," I told her, "They have lots of little babies now."

Santana looked disgusted as she rolled her eyes. "Eugh. Children. The root of all evil."

I gave her a chastising stare. "Sam wouldn't want to hear you say that."

"And Trouty Mouth never will hear me say that," she smirked. "So, you want to hear the rest of the plan?"

"Yes."

"Well, you marry the guy. Then you divorce him in a way so despicable that New York will remember your name forever. You drag him down to the ground and then pound his head into the fucking pavement." She hit the desk again for emphasis. "You tell the press about his drinking habits, his drug addictions and his obsession with both female and male prostitutes. You come across as the innocent, naïve girl who hailed for Ohio, and he comes across as the evil man-slut who destroyed your faith in old-school romance. Then _wham; _he gets fired and I get to keep my job."

I actually laughed. "Santana, you're forgetting one very important factor. If Noah is as rich as you say he is, his lawyers will wipe the floor with me. They'll know that I've lied and I could possibly even go to jail. They'll destroy my reputation so severely that I'll never, _ever_ see my star on the Walk of Fame."

"No, Rachel, you're not getting what I'm saying. I'm not saying that we blatantly lie about all of these things. We build up the proof against him along the way."

"You want me to influence him to take drugs and hire prostitutes?"

"Perhaps," she said thoughtfully. "But most likely you won't have to. Just call a dealer to the house and then call the paparazzi."

"It's not that simple," I said, shaking my head, "Besides; I really don't want to ruin his whole life."

She gave me a meaningful look. "You've said it yourself. He's a sexist asshole with an agenda. He wants to ruin me. He's told me as much. Also, Rach, I don't think you're going to get a better opportunity than this."

I was only half-convinced until she the magical world of all that was beautiful in my world fell from her lips.

"Broadway."

That was it. I was a goner.

I saw my name in shining lights above time square, a Tony in my shaking hands as tears of happiness clouded my vision. I heard myself belting out the final note of _Don__'__t __Rain __on __My __Parade_ in front of a sold-out crowd. There was a gold star above the name Rachel Barbra Berry on my dressing room door. The lights above my mirror twinkled, mimicking the ones I would see on the stage later that night. I could see myself in that mirror. I looked radiant, happy – no, I looked _complete. _I needed Broadway and Broadway needed me.

"You don't have to worry about any of the marriage stuff yet. First of all, we need to dress you to impress. Then we'll work on that attitude adjustment."

I nodded slowly; the sound of a crowd roaring in my ears.

"We doing this or what?"

The crowd was applauding me. They were clapping for me; something I'd craved my entire life. Community theatre back in Ohio could never be enough. I knew that, truly, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, I would never be happy working at _Playboy. _Santana was offering me a way to stardom. I just had to reach out and take the risk – no matter how utterly devastating the consequences could be.

"I think we are," I replied.

She squealed a little and jumped up from her chair, wrapping me in her arms once more. "We're taking him down," she hissed in my ear, "I'll get to keep my job."

_And __I__'__ll __get __to __be __a __star, _my conscience supplied.

"Can I come out now?" Quinn called from behind the bathroom door nearby. We broke apart and watched as she slowly opened the door. She peeked out at us and seemed relieved when Santana didn't yell at her. "Thank _God_," she exclaimed, "I was beginning to feel like I was in one of those _Saw _movies. No one should have to look at tiles for that long."

She walked toward us, seemingly not realising the conspiring that had been going on. Santana had never said it; but I was smart enough to know that she didn't want the plan known to anyone else. That meant that, at least at work, I didn't know her.

"Did you find the intern here to be up to your standards?" The blonde drawled. She leant against Santana's desk and stared at her old high school friend, waiting for a reply. I wondered what she wanted to hear.

"She'll do," my best friend said coolly. I ducked my head and hid my knowing smile. Maybe Santana should have followed my footsteps and gone into acting.

The two ex-cheerleaders began a friendly rapport that I couldn't quite keep up with. I drifted off and began to imagine the stage lights on my face once more. I couldn't wait for that dream to be a reality. Absently, I wondered if I could _really_ capture the attention of a man like Noah Puckerman. If Santana was right, I could.

Ten minutes later, I trailed after Quinn, back towards the elevator where we'd come from. She didn't say anything to me, although I didn't think that the silence was filled with hostility. We weren't exactly friends - but we definitely weren't enemies. As the elevator doors shut, I saw Santana wink at me. The wink said it all; _Welcome __to __the __dark __side. We have cookies._

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><p>AN: Thank you so much for reading. Please review, it would mean so much to me. I love to wake up to your thoughts on my work, it just makes getting up and going to school/work/a tennis match so much easier.


	4. Mutual Respect

A/N: I received some less than positive reviews for the last chapter. That's okay, I understand where you're coming from. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I'd just like to make clear that I'm using Santana as an antagonist. Not a protagonist. She'll come full circle at the end of the story, but for now she's got her own troubles. Rachel was easily persuaded in the last chapter, so now I'm going to focus on her struggles with the decision. My Rachel is a very selfish woman. She isn't vindictive or wicked - she's just extremely ambitious and has huge dreams (Sound familiar?). With that said, I really hope that those of you who did not like the tone of the last chapter still choose to continue reading. You'll see that things change. Thank you for your reviews, though. I'm pleased to present to you the next chapter not a day later. I had a lot of time to waste today. So, here we go.

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><p>By nine o'clock, I was doing what I did best; stress-eating.<p>

"Rachel Berry!" Kurt screamed when he walked into the apartment. "What in the name of Marc Jacobs do you think you're doing?"

"I'm drowning my sorrows," I whined, shoving yet another spoonful of vanilla ice cream into my mouth. One of those dreadful telenovella shows was playing on our small television. Kurt gave me a look that told me I was a right old mess. I wasn't surprised. I'd come home from work and realised the extent of what I'd gotten myself into. I couldn't go through with it. I'd ruin Noah Puckerman's life. Yet, I couldn't lose Broadway either. I just didn't know what to do.

My roommate wrenched the ice cream tub and giant table spoon from my grasp and flung it across the room. It hit something in the kitchen, which started a chain reaction and made Kurt's antique china setting fall from its perch above the small curtained window. We both squealed as the expensive items fell and smashed on the linoleum flooring.

"Why did you do that?" I yelled at him once the loud noises had subsided. He was staring at the kitchen, a look of awe on his face. I scrambled up from my sitting position on the couch and reached out to him, yanking him back towards me. "You could have broken my limited edition _Funny __Girl _mug!"

"I should have tried out for the baseball team in high school," he said quietly. I was outraged.

"How _dare _throw my perfectly good ice cream around!" I bellowed.

He struggled out of my grip, his shock apparently subsiding, and rolled his eyes at me once he was free. "Oh, please, Rachel. Have you _forgotten_ that you're a vegan?"

I tried to find the right words. "I doesn't matter anymore! I don't care! I'm evil, Kurt, I'm _evil!__" _I settled for exclaiming. Guilt washing over me once more, I threw myself back onto the couch and began to sob dramatically.

"No," he countered, hitting me in the head with one of the sequined couch pillows we owned. "You're just a huge drama queen!"

"Hey!" Blaine yelled, entering through the open door leading into our apartment. I looked up, my eyes red and swollen, and watched as he stumbled inside, holding way too many of Kurt's shopping bags. He dumped them on the floor and turned to face us both; an alarmed look on his face. "What's going on?" He demanded to know.

Blaine had been Kurt's boyfriend for a very long time. They were perfect together. I'd always been jealous of them – in fact, for a while I'd had a crush on Blaine – and I'd always compared any relationship I'd had to theirs. They fought all of the time, but they always made up by the end of the day. They fit together like two puzzle pieces.

"Rachel was stress-eating again," Kurt snapped, crossing his arms over his plaid vintage vest. He wore a tasteful ensemble; all light, summery undertones. It was perfect for a day spent shopping in Manhattan.

Blaine seemed glad that it hadn't been a bigger deal. He visibly relaxed. "So? It's her body, Kurt. Rachel can eat what she wants."

That's why I liked Blaine. He understood that I was allowed to do what I wanted. Kurt didn't want me to spend my nights alone and sobbing on the couch, clutching whatever looked the most delectable in our fridge at the time in my tiny hands. He always dragged me out to whatever luxurious club or function they were going to that night. Blaine came from a rich family on the Upper East Side. His parents were both famous socialites and they'd been appalled when he'd come out. Since then, however, they'd become more supportive of his homosexuality. Kurt was practically their son-in-law.

"You don't get it, Blaine!" Kurt whined. "You don't have to deal with the crying at night when she realises what she's done. She _always _gets emotional when she goes against her vegan morals. I can't do that tonight!"

I made a non-descript sound of annoyance. "That's not true."

Blaine looked at me; observing my condition. "Are you sure he's not right, Rachel?"

Okay, Kurt really was correct. I did end up crying myself to sleep every time I consumed animal products. I hadn't reached the bacon yet, which I was thankful about. If the two men hadn't returned home I would surely have been onto the jerky by now. I didn't feel sorry for Kurt, though. Sure, he had to deal with my sobbing late at night on account of how we were too poor to afford a two-bedroom apartment (We shared a room laden with playbills and posters of Patty LuPone, Barbra Streisand, Julie Andrews and various other legendary performers), but he wasn't part of an evil scheme.

"He's right," I said quietly. Absently, I used the sleeve of my sweater to wipe the remaining ice cream from the corner of my mouth. To their credit, Kurt and Blaine tried not to appear too disgusted.

"Okay, well, maybe you should come out with us tonight," Blaine offered. Kurt didn't seem to mind having me tag along with them most of the time. He looked at me hopefully, a quirk in his perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

"I don't know," I told them, "I have work in the morning."

They seemed to accept that as a no. Kurt sighed dejectedly and Blaine gathered all of the bags in his arms to walk over to the kitchen counter. He dumped them there as he noticed the smashed crockery on the floor. "What did you guys do in here?" He groaned. He wasn't amused by our antics anymore. They never failed to end with him cleaning up after us. "Start the next World War?"

"It was the ice cream's fault," Kurt sighed. He looked on at his boyfriend cleaning up the mess with a sad expression. "I always told you that sweet food was the Devil."

I became increasingly stressed at the mention of an evil creature. I wasn't much different, really, if I were going to go along with the plan. The apartment fell into silence as Blaine tidied up and Kurt went through his newly bought items, making small sounds of delight as he did so.

"Am I a bad person?" I asked them a few moments later. I wanted to hear their opinions. I'd gotten a lot of mixed reviews from people in my life. To some of them, I was just an innocent, kind girl who didn't know how to separate ambition from cunning. To others, I was a conniving attention-whore who would stop at nothing to be in the spotlight.

"Of course not," Blaine said immediately. I knew that that was what he truly thought. Blaine didn't lie. We'd gotten along since I'd met him nearly eight years ago. We were friends. Kurt and I were closer friends, however, and that often meant that he was harsher towards me.

"Sometimes," he replied, "But so am I. I mean, when you and me sabotaged the original Maria and Tony in the college musical so that we could play their parts I was convinced that I was Lucifer reincarnate."

I couldn't help but grin. "They deserved it, though. They weren't even musical theatre students." That was true. Our dramatic reputations had been upheld by the fact that we had starred in the production of _West __Side __Story._

Kurt smirked at me evilly. "Of course."

His boyfriend, however, didn't seem to understand our reasoning. "It wasn't the right thing to do, guys. You shouldn't have done it," he muttered, scraping the remains of Kurt's china into the bin under the sink. "You should've just accepted the fact that you got beaten."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "We weren't _beaten._ The judges were close-minded. They didn't deem me _manly _enough for the role and they weren't exactly open to having a Jewish girl play Maria."

"Even though we were the better choices," I added. "Truly, we _were _the better actors. The girl who was originally cast was a contralto. Talk about bad casting."

Blaine just shook his head at us. Then, "You sure you don't want to come out with us? We could cut the night short and head home before eleven."

I turned him down and stayed home that night. Santana called me to discuss some matters, but I told her that I'd see her later. I wasn't in the mood. I just wanted to curl up into a little ball and allow the Earth to swallow me whole. The decision was just too much for me. Feeling as if I had nothing else to do, I pulled on my large black coat and headed out for a quick meal.

I _had _told Kurt that I wouldn't continue to eat myself out of a conscience. But he had left me alone in the apartment that night. I wasn't going to deny myself my comfort food. I walked to the nearest McDonalds, which was just outside of my apartment complex, and ordered something called a Big Mac. I wasn't exactly sure what it entailed but I knew it contained some sort of meat product. I took a seat in the corner booth and started to pick at it miserably.

"You don't eat it like that."

I looked up, startled, to see Noah Puckerman standing above me in his gym sweats. I started to breathe quickly at the sight of him, wondering what on Earth I had done to deserve this kind of punishment. "I-I know," I lied.

He took a seat in my booth and started to unwrap his own meal. He had two burgers with a very large amount of French fries. We didn't talk as he began to wolf them down. I hadn't touched my dinner when he came up for air a few minutes later. "So, I thought you were a vegan."

I blanched. "I never said anything about being one."

"I know," he shrugged, picking off a pickle and wrinkling his nose. "I just have an affinity for that shit."

It was strange seeing him out of the office. He looked different; relaxed. I wondered why he was spending time in Brooklyn when his mother had been a billionaire. He no doubt owned homes in Beverly Hills. If I owned houses there, I wouldn't be _seen _in my neighbourhood.

"Lighten up," he told me before taking a giant slurp from his Coke. "You don't have to be serious with me. We aren't at work."

I remembered the look on Santana's face when she told me that he was trying to steal her job. Somehow, I just couldn't picture him doing that. First of all, he genuinely looked as if he wouldn't know where to start when plotting to take someone's career away from them. Second of all, he spent half of the time at work seducing models in his office. He didn't seem career-minded enough for what she had described. Then again, I myself didn't trust him. He could be so much more than he seemed.

"You still think I'm a sexist pig?" He wondered aloud. I glanced up from my burger and stared at him, unable to get my answer out. "God, you look like fuckin' goldfish when you do that," he remarked.

I coloured and scowled at him. "Yes, I do think you're a pig. But you're my boss. I don't get to say things like that." Hastily, I realised that that wasn't exactly the way I should go about getting him to fall in love with me. Was that really what I was going to do? Could I really set out to ruin a man's life for my own personal gain?

"I don't care what you call me as long as you stick to our agreement," he said, "If it gets out that I'm sleeping with my assistants again, I'm fired. You got that?"

He didn't say it as if it were a warning. He said it jokingly, as if he were messing with me. But I guessed that what he was saying was true. There had been a fair bit of talk about Noah's warnings around the office.

"You're looking at me funny," he smirked. His giant hands wrapped around the hamburger as he took another disgustingly large bite. He spoke the next words with his mouth full. "Like I'm crazy or something. S'okay, babe, I know you'll fall in love with me eventually. Just don't act on it. I don't go for girls like you anyway."

I was offended by his lack of chivalry. I struggled for a witty comeback. Nothing. "I-I'm not interested in you. I have a boyfriend," I lied hastily. I didn't question my judgement. The situation had called for me to lie about my relationship status.

He scoffed. "Yeah, whatever you say, Princess."

I bristled. "I do!"

"Come on, show me then."

I scrambled in my coat pocket for my mobile phone where I hastily flipped through my contacts in search of a person who had boyfriend potential.

Kurt? No. Too effeminate. Finn? I didn't want to use a married man as my fake boyfriend. Sam? Unfortunately he might know him as Santana's boyfriend from her photos. Jesse, my old boyfriend who I still saw every now and then? No, I couldn't use him. He was making it big on Broadway nowadays and I didn't want to run the risk that Noah knew who he was. I settled on a photo of the only other man on my contacts list. I didn't have a lot of time to talk to men and I was hardly Santana when it came to procuring romantic dalliances.

Blaine Anderson. If you looked at some of the drunken photos of him that I had on my phone, he looked incredibly straight. A lot of women I knew were interested in him. I wondered if I were betraying Kurt for even insinuating that Blaine and I were romantically involved. However, I came to the conclusion that what Kurt didn't know didn't hurt him and showed my boss a photo of Blaine playing beer pong.

As I suspected, the look on his face was not one of recognition. I'd made a great choice when I'd picked my fake boyfriend. Blaine may have been the son of two Manhattan socialites – but that didn't mean he was famous enough to know Noah Puckerman.

"You're dating a Hobbit?" He grunted, unimpressed.

Grumpily, I shoved my phone back into my pocket and sent him a glare. "Blaine is not a hobbit," I snapped. "He is a perfectly handsome man."

"I'm not saying he isn't," he said tiredly, swirling the remainder of the Coke in his polyester drink container. "I'm sure you'll make a lovely swarm of little Hobbit children. It's just… well, he doesn't look Jewish."

I had left the burger untouched on its wrappers. Somehow, Noah had cured me of my temporary depression. "How did you know I was Jewish?"

"The nose," he told me honestly.

I blushed and tried to cover it up with my hand. "That was rude of you."

"I don't see how."

"Well, y-you said that my nose is big," I stuttered, turning redder.

He seemed confused. "I didn't. I just said that it was clearly Jewish."

"That's a stereotype. As far as you know, I could be Roman Catholic."

He chuckled and reached for some fries. "There's also the Star of David around your neck. I may seem like it but I'm not _actually _a fuckin' idiot."

I blushed further. "Still, I don't see how it matters that Blaine isn't Jewish. I don't have to be with someone of the same faith."

"I know. You just look like the kind of girl who would wanna be."

I really didn't think that it was up to him to decide what kind of girl I was. However, I raised my eyebrows as I realised that he was right. I'd never openly said that I'd rather end up married to a Jewish man. I didn't mind, actually, what religion the man I fell in love with would be. I would prefer that my children were raised in the Jewish faith, though.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" I snapped instead of replying to his previous assessment. "Brooklyn doesn't exactly seem like your scene."

"I grew up here," he said indifferently, "Why _wouldn__'__t_ it seem like my kinda scene?"

I was surprised. "Really? I always assumed that because of your mother-"

"My ma didn't raise me," he cut me off. I normally would have been angry at him for doing such a thing, but I found that I couldn't be. His mother and their relationship was obviously a sore spot. "Dad did."

"Do you still see him?" I asked him. Curiosity always got the better of me.

"Nah, he's dead too."

I scanned his face for any signs of hurt. I saw none. He reached for his fries as if he were dismissing the topic. "I'm sorry," I said sincerely. I really was. I had never known my mother – she'd been a surrogate and nothing more to me – but I'd always had my two loving fathers who had supported me in whatever I'd done. I couldn't imagine what if would be like if I'd lost them both.

"S'okay," he smirked. There was a difference to this smirk; something that told me that he wasn't really feeling as mischievous as he appeared. He pushed his remaining fries toward me. "Go on. I'll share with you. It's obvious you're not eating that burger anytime soon."

Reluctantly, I did as he suggested.

"I was just at the gym," he said out of the blue. I wondered for a while if he was trying to impress me by saying that. He tried to appear unfazed as he flexed his biceps. I could see them under the dim, dingy lights of the establishment. They weren't so bad. In fact, they beat Finn's by a mile – but I would never admit that to anyone. "Doin' weights and shit."

I stared at him; unimpressed. "You came _here_ straight after working out?"

"I have to load up on carbs."

I giggled at his explanation. I didn't even work out and I was fairly sure that you were meant to do that beforehand.

After that, our conversation drifted towards safer waters; business discussions. I told him that Quinn had taught me how to touch-type on some silly computer program called 'Sir Type-a-lot' where I, as the player, had to complete a quest by completing all of the levels. I had finished it within a few hours. I now knew how to type words like; 'wench', 'lord' and 'haggis' in my sleep.

Eventually, Noah told me that he had to go because one of the magazine's paid models couldn't get out of his apartment. I didn't bother to question _why _she was there because it was blatantly obvious.

It was eleven o'clock by the time I returned home and immediately fell asleep in my nice, warm bed.

I woke up at about two the next morning as the sudden realisation that I had consumed ice cream and at least a little beef hit me. I sobbed into my pillow for a few minutes before Kurt woke up and threw the first thing he could get a hold of at me. This time, it was the ridiculous Hawaiian lamp that Sam and Santana had bought for us after their brief holiday to the island state. After it hit the wall on the opposite side of the room – luckily for me, his sense of direction was _way _off – we both forced our eyes open and stared at the huge dent it had made in shock. Then, we proceeded to scream at one another for the next ten minutes. Eventually, we ended up hugging and saying that we'd never fight again.

* * *

><p>I met Mike Chang, the Creative Director at <em>Playboy<em>, the next day. I was astounded by his kindness. He didn't seem like the other men at the business. He spent most of his working hours looking up dance videos on YouTube. I recommended that he watch a few routines by choreographers who had worked with me when I was an extra on _Legally __Blonde: __The __Musical. _He enjoyed them and soon enough we became friends.

I had been at _Playboy _for a week and already I was beginning to understand how things worked. Noah was right, it _was _a business; regardless of how I viewed it. I did learn to appreciate some of the workers there. Noah continued to leave his paperwork piled up on my desk for me to fill out. The workload was overwhelming for me. I struggled so much the first few days that I was sure I was going to be fired. Noah didn't notice my struggling though, because he was obviously preoccupied by the women who flounced into his curtained office every hour or so.

I came to rely on Quinn when I forgot how to transfer calls or what the number was for Noah's sister, Jasmine. She called a lot and asked me how he was, if he was coping well. I wasn't exactly sure what she was worried about but I told her that he was fine. Aside from possibly being a sex-addict, he really did seem perfectly healthy.

Santana continued to successfully weave me into her plan. I hadn't had much of a breakthrough yet, but she anticipated that I would soon. I didn't feel comfortable with the plan but I had decided to stick with it for my own selfish reasons. I heard mentions of show business every day. The word 'Broadway' forced me to experience strong, panging pains in my stomach. I couldn't go on knowing that I'd never see my dreams come true.

We were talking about my progress in her office that Friday when I remembered my conversation with Noah in McDonalds. If he slept with his new assistant (me, obviously), then he would be fired as a result of his actions. I didn't know who had the power to do terminate him - Santana certainly didn't or she would't have deemed the plan necessary - but it was a better idea than _marrying _the man.

"Come on," she hissed, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the elevator. When I'd told her what I'd uncovered, her eyes had gone all wide and terrifying. The plan was much simpler now. "I'm going to make you into a Seductress."

Somehow, I highly doubted I could pull this off.

* * *

><p>"I can't do this!" I yelled at Santana. We were seated inside her car outside of the <em>Playboy <em>_Enterprises _building, watching silently as rain poured down the front windshield. "He's not stupid, San. He'll know what I'm trying to do."

She tried to push me out of the passenger's seat again. "No, he won't. He'll just go with it. Trust me."

I shoved her hands off of me and took a few deep breaths. "I _can__'__t. _I can't sell myself like this. Besides, I really think that this plan is flawed. I mean, why can't you just increase your workload or something? Talk to your superiors. They value your opinions, San. Just voice them and you'll feel so much better. I'm sure you won't get fired."

Santana groaned in frustration. "Just do it, Rach. It's not a big deal."

I blistered. "It _is. _This is his _job_. He's my boss."

"_I__'__m_ your boss," she told me for the fifth time that night, "Now, you told me you were up for this. You're not gonna back down now, are you?"

_Yes, _my conscience supplied. I struggled for words. "I don't know. I can't do this."

"Yes, you can," she insisted, "I'm your best friend, Rach."

It was those words that got me to move my hand so that it rested on the door handle. "I _can__'__t,__" _I said again, despite myself.

She tried to shove me once more. Finally, when I didn't budge, it seemed like she'd give up on me. "I can't believe this," she muttered, "Six years of friendship and you still don't trust me."

I panicked. "I do trust you, San. I do. I just feel terrible about this. I don't even know why I would consider it anymore. Broadway isn't an option with the new plan. He's not going to hook me up with his mother's agent after a one night stand!"

"Of course he isn't. That's why you take his contacts book from his top drawer."

"I can't steal from him too!" I exclaimed. I was having an internal battle with myself. I didn't know what to do. Finally, my ethics took control. "No. I'm not doing this. I refuse to do it."

Santana had had enough. She startled me by forcing me to look her in the eye and snapping, "If you don't do this for me, Rach, then I might have to seriously consider what our friendship means to you."

I shook my head. "You're being ridiculous-"

"No, I'm not. You see, I've heard what's going on within the company. They're going to offer him my position next month. If I don't get him fired, then Sam finds out _everything. _He'll never take me back after that."

"You can't use me for this. You should've used Quinn-"

"I can fire you, you know, Rachel."

I stared up at her in shock. How _dare _she? "Are you threatening me?" I asked her. I couldn't believe it. I should have known that the old Santana was still in there; ready to use anyone and everything to her advantage.

Santana seemed to be struggling with what she was about to say. She stared right back at me, her brown eyes without mercy. "I'll do it unless you get out of this car right now."

"You _know _that I need the money-"

She was old Santana again. She gave me a sarcastic wink; reminiscent of our freshman year when she'd been a new member of the cheerleading squad. I'd tried out for the team – thinking that it would help to improve my popularity – and had been turned down. She'd winked at me cruelly as I'd left the college gymnasium in tears of humiliation. "Still," she snapped, "I would still do it. I can't lose my fiancé, Rachel. You know that."

Santana loved Sam more than she loved anyone else. He'd transformed her – or so everyone else thought he had.

I couldn't get over this. A month ago, I would have laughed at the notion that Santana would betray me. I hadn't had a closer friend than her in my life. Still, I'd always known that there was some part of her that was still a relentless bitch. I'd seen it many a times. Just because it wasn't directed at me didn't mean it wasn't there.

"You'd really do that to me?" I whispered.

"Damn straight, Yentl."

I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. She hadn't called me by that offensive nickname in over six years. Slowly, shaking from the anger that was beginning to build up in my body, I gave her one final look of defiance before I slipped out of the car and into the icy cold night.

* * *

><p>I dried my tears before I knocked on the door of his office. I couldn't believe what I was about to do. Maybe I should just turn back and accept that I was going to have to take a new job at a fast food joint. I felt cheap and dirty and my self esteem was at an all time low.<p>

Noah stayed in his office later than the rest of his staff on a Friday to go over the week's work. He re-read articles and wrote in his comments, telling everyone how to improve the issue. Some photos would have to be re-shot, some articles re-written and some stories completely axed. That was just how it was in the world of publishing.

"Rachel?" I heard him mutter. His office was made of glass and it was easy to see through when the curtains weren't drawn. I could hear his shoes stomping against the tiles to come and open the door. When he answered, he had a hand in his dishevelled hair as he stared down at me with tired-looking eyes. "What are you doing here?" His eyebrows raised in confusion. "You forget your bag or something?"

I forced myself to smile as I pushed past him. "No," I told him, "But there's an itch you can scratch for me."

I could hardly believe what I was saying. He stared at me, wide-eyed, as I pushed myself up onto his desk. As I did so, I tripped a little and accidentally knocked his lamp off of the desk. What _was_ it with me and attracting dangerous situations involving lamps?

He didn't take his eyes off of me; not even when the lamp hit the floor with a thud. "What do you mean?" He questioned. For a man known to be such a notorious womanizer, he really wasn't taking any hints. I wondered if I was doing the whole seduction thing wrong.

Although my conscience was screaming at me to stop, I began to unbutton my coat. He didn't move and for a moment he looked almost transfixed. I stumbled on one of the buttons, however, and his gaze was broken. "Are you trying to _seduce _me?" He wondered aloud. I looked up at him with what I hoped was a coy expression. It apparently wasn't, because he looked like he was about to crack up laughing. "I told you not to fall in love with me."

I tried not to blush too hard after that one. I continued to unbutton my coat as I spoke, "I'm not _in __love_ with you. I just want you." I wanted to punch myself in the face when he let out a low chuckle.

"Get out of here, Rachel," he told me, smirking. "I don't want you."

My face fell. _No, _I told myself, _you _have _to __do __this. __You __can__'__t __lose __your __job __and __Santana __will __know __that __you __didn__'__t __go __through __with __it. _I didn't listen to him. Instead, I finished unbuttoning my coat and gave him my full attention. "Don't lie to me," I tried to purr. I assumed that it came out as more of a growl, though, because he seemed to be laughing gently again as he strode over to the desk and bent to pick up the desk lamp. I didn't have time to think differently; I just had to act. I could do that. I was an actress, right?

By the time he had placed the lamp back on the desk, I had stood up. I let my coat fall onto the floor behind me. I kicked off my shoes and willed him to look at me. I wore only my underwear. In fact, it the matching black set was so new that I felt as if I couldn't class it as my own yet. I hated lacy undergarments. They made my skin itch in all of the wrong ways and I really hadn't wanted to buy them. Santana had insisted.

He turned to face me and I caught a hint of desire in his eyes. It was gone before I could act on it, though, replaced instead with an expression of mocking. "Really... you should go," he said. "I need to finish my paperwork."

If my job hadn't rested on this, I would have done as he had asked. Although I could not deny that Noah Puckerman was an attractive man, I certainly didn't want to sell myself like this. I needed him to do this. But I was done acting. "Please," I pleaded, letting my real self shine through the fake, whorish exterior, "Please just go along with it."

He didn't seem to understand the pleading in my eyes. "I don't understand. Last week you were disgusted by the sight of me and my behaviour towards you and now you're begging me to fuck you? This doesn't seem like you, Rachel."

I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes once more as I gave up. I bent down to pick up my coat and shove my shoes on once more. I buttoned the large jacket right up to my neck, disgusted that he'd seen me so vulnerable. I spun around and stood, facing him, when I was done.

He looked tired. Like less of an asshole. I wondered why I'd ever agreed to help Santana. I wondered why I'd ever believed her in the first place. Feeling incredibly silly, I realised what I would do. First thing Monday morning I would hand in my letter of resignation and be done with this whole stupid mess. I couldn't destroy Noah. He had proven to me that he wasn't all he seemed to be. He respected me. He hadn't taken advantage the minute I'd whipped off of my clothes like I'd thought he would have done.

"What the fuck happened to make you want me?" He asked me. I wasn't offended by his swearing. He used it in anger, sure, but not at this point in time. He used it now because he didn't know what else to do.

"Don't worry," I sniffled. He seemed unsure of what to do. I guessed that he didn't deal with crazy, crying women a lot. "It's just a big, stupid mess."

He shook his head and laughed uneasily. "You're not _pregnant_, are you?"

I made a sound of surprise. "No!" I exclaimed.

"Well, I don't see why else you'd leave that Hobbit boyfriend of yours," he shrugged, "Seems like a cool guy."

I couldn't help but smile. I'd forgotten about my fake boyfriend. "He is."

He smirked. "He can't be fucking amazing at sex like I am, though. That's why you came here."

I laughed. It was an incredibly unattractive laugh; my throat sounded funny because my nose was blocked. That always happened to me when I cried. "Yes. That's it," I lied.

Noah chuckled as he slipped back into his desk chair. He watched me leave through the open door of his office, a look on his face that told me he pitied me.

I was starting to walk away when he called out to me, "Oh, and Rachel?"

I paused. "Yes?"

"You can come in early on Monday morning and tell me what's going on with you. I don't need a bat-shit assistant."

I nodded and made sure he didn't see the pensive look on my face. He wouldn't have an assistant to boss around on Monday, and Santana wouldn't have a minion to control. I wouldn't have any promises of income.

I caught the elevator down to the lobby, which I quickly exited through it's large double doors. I collected my bearings as the rain fell down on me, the coldness of the side-walk seeping through my shoes and and spreading throughout my body. I looked out and spied Santana in her fancy black car, giving me an annoyed look. In a gesture that wasn't very Rachel Berry at all, I flipped her the bird before turning and making my way to the nearest bus shelter.

* * *

><p>AN: Thank you for reading! Obviously, Rachel will be returning to _Playboy. _How else would she pay her rent?


	5. Champagne Makes Her A HomeWrecking Slut

A/N: Hi all. Just a warning, there _is_ smut in this. It's not too graphic, but yes, it is a_ little_. It is not Puckleberry. I know some of you won't enjoy it, but it's necessary to the plot. So, without further ado, here's a new chapter of _The Contract._ Please review.

* * *

><p>I was drunk. I really couldn't deny it. Finn couldn't deny it, either, when I pushed his door open and stumbled into his living room. He was working, as per usual, and let out a yell of surprise at my entrance. He jumped up, a shocked look on his face. He took in the bottle of champagne in my hand. His eyes widened. "Rachel," he greeted, stepping back and trying to offer me a reassuring smile, "What are you doing here?"<p>

I nearly tripped over the coffee table as I made my way over to him. I mumbled something in reply, which he didn't seem to understand. I didn't blame him, I thought,_ I_ couldn't even understand what I was saying.

"You don't want a glass for that?" He asked, raising his eyebrows at the half-drained bottle in my hand. When I didn't answer him, he employed what I liked to call his 'teacher voice.' It hurt to hear him talk to me like a child when I was completely besotted with him. Before I knew it, I was crying again.

"Whoa!" He exclaimed. I moved to cover my reddened face with my hands, conveniently dropping the champagne as I did so. He scrambled to retrieve it before it smashed. "Rachel," he chastised after setting it safely atop the coffee table, "Why did you do this? You know that you and champagne aren't good together."

I just cried harder. Of course I knew that. I hadn't wanted to feel, though, and champagne had always been my chosen escape. After bravely sending Santana a gesture I wasn't too sure about, I'd caught the bus to a liquor store and bought three bottles of my favourite alcohol. I'd never been a vodka kind of girl.

"How much have you had?"

I shook my head, unsure, before drying my eyes on the sleeve of my coat. It was the only suitable clothing I was wearing. Underneath it, I was still wearing the lingerie Santana had purchased for me. I had felt incredibly dirty wearing it, waiting in line at the liquor store. But I didn't feel like that anymore. I just felt… sad.

"Come on, Rach," Finn said, obviously uncomfortable. Maybe the situation reminded him too much of college. Absentmindedly, I wondered where Sarah was. Shouldn't she have been home by now? "We need to get you cleaned up."

I ignored him. "Where's Sarah?" I mumbled, pushing myself off of him and looking around for her. I was right. She was no where to be found.

He looked up at me, his eyes grave before letting his head fall into his waiting hands. He took a deep breath before answering me, "At her sister's house. We had another fight."

I struggled for the right words to say. "Oh," sufficed.

"Yeah, apparently I don't appreciate her enough or something. I don't know," he shrugged and looked up at me, a weary look in his eyes. "I think she's seeing somebody else, Rach."

My eyes filled with tears again. In my drunken state, this seemed like both the best and worst news in the entire world. I collapsed onto the couch again and snuggled up against his arm. He sighed and put his arm around me in a platonic gesture. I didn't like that, so I pushed him off of me and marched to the other side of the room. When I turned back to glare at him, he seemed confused. "What's wrong?" He asked dumbly.

"What's wrong?" I repeated angrily, "What's _wrong?__" _Before he could stop me, I snatched the champagne bottle off of the table and took another swig. I hiccupped rather inelegantly afterward, which didn't seem to help my case. He moved off of the couch as if he meant to take it back from me, but I danced away from him and he only groaned. I sent him another glare as I took another gulp. He looked tired and concerned.

"Well, I'll tell you what's wrong, Finn!" I yelled, slamming the bottle onto the nearby television cabinet. He winced as I did so. "First off, Santana _betrays_ me and basically sells me out like a _prostitute, _and all for a job no one even knows she has! Then my boss rejects me, so now I'm unemployed… _again! _And then I get here, and you-" I choked on my tears.

He slowly tip-toed over to me, as if he were afraid I was going to throw something at him. I was considering it. "What did I do, Rach? I don't get it."

"You-you act like you don't even know what I feel for you! I can't keep pretending around you, Finn! You have a wife, I know, but don't you remember college? I've never felt that way about anyone except for _you!__"_

By the time I was done screaming, he had stopped moving toward me. His eyes were wide and his lips parted. "You still have feelings for me?" He repeated.

I groaned and my fingers ached to hold my alcohol again. It was a comfort blanket. I wished that I hadn't said anything. Now I wouldn't see him at all. Regardless of my feelings for him, he really had been a good friend to me. But that was soon to be over as I'd let my feelings get in the way, _again._

"Yes, Finn," I said quietly, feeling as if I were sobering by the second. "I still love you. I can't really change that."

He didn't make a move toward me until the tears started to fall from my eyelashes once more. I felt his arms wrap around my shoulders and his soothing words against my hair. I remembered college; when everything had been different. I wondered if he was in a state of remembrance, too.

"P-please don't avoid me after this," I sobbed, gripping his sweater with my fist. "I don't expect anything to change between us, just- just _please.__"_

He nodded. He didn't have to say anything. I knew deep down that no matter how hard we tried, nothing would ever be the same between us. We couldn't pretend anymore – not when he knew my true desires.

We stayed like that for a few moments. I felt his chest vibrate against my own, and I knew that he was crying, too. I'd never seen Finn cry. He wasn't a man that was very in touch with his emotions. But I knew that Sarah meant a lot to him, and that I did too, in some strange, unknown way.

I felt him pull away from me, and for a moment I was consumed with remorse. But then his hand reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. I held my breath at his touch.

Our eyes met. His were red but dry. Slowly, it registered that he hadn't moved his hand. I could feel his skin burning against my own, and I watched as something foreign settled in his eyes. They seemed darker; filled with desire. My heart thumped in my chest as his face slowly came toward my own. When our lips touched, it was like I had been slapped in the face by my own memories.

His lips were chapped, but I remembered them being that way before. I could feel the slight scratch of his stubble against my jaw as we deepened the kiss. His lips moved slowly across mine, and after a moment of shock, I started to kiss him back. The kiss became more passionate as his hands came up to gently tangle in my hair. I let my own roam across his broad shoulders as he walked backwards and lowered the both of us onto the couch.

He sat upright, and I straddled his waist. When I felt his tongue slip between my lips, I gasped. He moaned and I could feel his hardness against my thigh. We were suddenly frantic in our movements, hungering for one another. I didn't know if it was love or pure lust on his part, but Finn and I had never been like this before. If I had been in my right mind I might have stopped it – but then again, maybe I wouldn't have.

"Rachel," he whispered. Understanding what he needed, I untangled my arms from around his neck and helped him unbutton my coat. His hands shook like a nervous teenager as I watched him with fascination. He finally managed to get it undone and shoved it to the floor behind me. He took in Santana's choice of underwear and smiled at me before placing his hands over my breasts.

"You're so beautiful," he told me. I didn't need any other words after that. I kissed him deeply as he unlatched my bra before he discarded it on the floor along with my coat. His lips travelled down my neck and I moaned. His tongue made a trail through the valley of my chest. I squirmed and he complied, taking one of my nipples into his mouth as he palmed the other one in his hand.

"F-Finn," I gasped, grinding against him. He seemed to notice my urgency, so he released my nipple and gently turned me so that I lay before him on the couch. He didn't take his eyes off of me as he slid his pants off and discarded his boxers. I wriggled in anticipation as he settled back on the piece of furniture and hovered over me, peppering my belly with tiny kisses. He was an attentive lover, but I was impatient and I wanted more. He slowly slid my panties off and continued to kiss his way down to my heat. I spread myself for him and was delighted when I felt his fingers gently trace my opening.

"Are you sure?" He whispered; his eyes clouded with desire. I only nodded and smiled at him. He smiled right back at me before he bent his head and swirled his tongue around my clit. I moaned and shut my eyes tight. He dipped his tongue into my folds and I wriggled, mewling. He laughed quietly, which sent vibrations throughout me. He returned to pleasuring me, delighting in my urging for him to hurry up. When I was close to my release, I couldn't resist thrusting against him. He held my thighs with his large hands as I came for the first time in months. I didn't see stars, but I certainly felt blissful.

When I'd recovered, I opened my eyes and my gaze fell upon his penis. He watched me spread myself for him again as he pumped it a few times. He stopped, wary for the first time since we'd started our love-making. I recognised the nervousness in his eyes. "I'm on the pill," I told him. He nodded and smiled at me once more.

After he'd spent a good minute or so paying homage to my chest, I was ready again. He positioned himself at my entrance and pushed in. He was slow in doing so, so I swirled my hips and he grunted before pushing all the way in. He allowed me a moment so I could adjust myself, then he started to thrust. I met every thrust with my own hips, and after a few minutes we had both found our release.

He pulled out and l found that longed for him again. But we were both tired, so we didn't bother to move from the couch. I crawled toward him and he took me in his arms, where I soon fell asleep.

* * *

><p>Luckily, I was able to sneak out before Finn woke up. I was incredibly hung-over, and although that bottle of champagne had cost almost half of that week's pay cheque, I couldn't even look at it, let alone take it with me. I left it in Finn's apartment when I snuck out, clutching my coat around me in humiliation. I couldn't believe what we'd done. <em>Finn <em>_is __a __married __man, __Rachel! __A __married __man!_ I chastised myself.

I tried to be quiet when I entered my own apartment. The hallway was scattered with both women and men partaking in the walk of shame. I sighed when I realised that I was one of them. I'd never thought that I could sink as low as I had in the past week or so.

It was fortunate that Kurt had spent the night at Blaine's. I immediately headed toward the shower, where I washed my hair and tried to not think about the details of the previous twelve hours. I wanted to cuddle up on the couch and watched _Funny __Girl. _I wanted to dream about Broadway with certainty – _knowing_ that I would get there some day.

I had.

But not with the star power that I'd thought I'd possessed.

I got out of the shower and dried myself before slipping on one of Kurt's overly extravagant fluffy white robes. This was a habit of mine. I always used his things when he wasn't around. I was about to walk out to the kitchen to begin stress-eating once more when I heard the apartment door unlock. I froze. A burglar? No. No. This couldn't be happening to me! I didn't deserve all of this bad karma. Well, I did sleep with a married man last night, but still! I didn't want to be murdered and have all of my things stolen.

I looked for something that resembled a weapon. I settled for Kurt's state-of-the-art straightening iron. I held it up and quietly turned the bathroom doorknob, hoping to God that they weren't just outside the door.

I was relieved when they weren't. Still, I could hear them shuffling around just beyond the hallway. I tried to calm my breathing before I tip-toed out to the combined living room, dining room and kitchen. The burglar was stealing things, surely. I brandished the straightening iron above my head. I'd taken a self-defence class once in college. Surely I remembered how to deliver a fatal blow to an assailant.

I froze again when I heard the click of the television remote. _They__'__re __going __to __take __the __TiVo! _I thought helplessly.

The television came to life, showcasing what I presumed was the main menu. I heard the burglar snort and make a crude remark. I turned red. They must have noticed Kurt's subscription to _Boys __Gone __Wild. _Strangely, I could also hear the sound of somebody making themselves at home on the couch. That was _my _furniture; cheezel stains and all. No body came in here and took that _and _my TiVo.

Outraged, I stomped out of the hallway and did the first thing I thought of. I threw the straightening iron at the couch. Unfortunately, my aim really wasn't terrific and instead it hit the far wall, leaving a surprisingly large dent.

"What the fuck, Rach?" The burglar screamed. I gasped when I realised who it was. For a moment I was incredibly sorry, but then I was reminded of yesterday's incident. I glowered at my former best friend.

"What are you doing here?" I asked stonily. "I thought I made it clear that I didn't want to speak to you anymore."

Santana snorted and kicked her high heels off before throwing her head back against one of our many couch pillows. She raised her eyebrows at me. "That was what it was?"

I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes. "Yes."

"Well, I'm sorry, Princess, but I wasn't aware that you understood what you were doing. You see, I've never seen you flip anyone the bird."

I scowled. "That's because it's usually vulgar and unnecessary. Yesterday, however, was the exception."

Santana smirked. "Whatever. So, what are we doing today?"

I chuckled icily. "Nothing. Now get out."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" She exclaimed mockingly. "Don't throw another hair appliance at me, Berry."

I didn't say anything.

"Wow, something's really got you on your rags-"

"Yes, it's you."

"But I don't get it. What'd I do?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said sarcastically. I placed my hand on my chin as if I were actually thinking it through. "Maybe, you _lied _to me for the past few years and then tried to use to me in one of your diabolical schemes?"

She shook her head. "It's not just me. There's something else on your mind. I can tell."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied defensively.

"What did you do last night, Rach?" She asked curiously. "Drink away your sorrows?"

I lifted my chin haughtily. "You know perfectly well that I don't do that sort of thing."

"Oh, but I _don__'__t. _I know that you _do, _in fact, have a little champagne addiction."

I weakened. "How, exactly, do you know that, Santana?"

"Well, you're hung-over. And also you forgot to dispose of the evidence."

I tried to hide my surprise. I looked around, trying to appear nonchalant, and found the empty bottle of champagne that I'd doused before I'd started on the next one – the one that was still in Finn's apartment. Also, my dirty clothes were on the floor. I winced. "Yes. As a matter of fact I did enjoy some champagne last night. With… Kurt."

"Bullshit. Lady hates bubbly."

I shrugged. "There's a first time for everything…"

Santana stood up from the couch and stared at me, as if she were observing me. I wrapped the robe around myself, sure that somehow she could tell that I slept with Finn last night.

"What did you do after that, then, Rach?" She questioned slowly. I gulped, trying not to appear too nervous. "Did you go and see Finn, by any chance?"

_How __did __she __know? _I blanched. "No. Of course not."

"Really? Because I happened to come across him wandering around the hallway outside his apartment. He asked about you."

For a moment, I was consumed with joy. Then I remembered that he was married. I refused to act on any feelings I had for him from now on. I felt terrible. I was a home-wrecking whore. "Really? Well, I didn't see him."

"Once again, bullshit," Santana stated; dead-pan. "I know what you did. I could smell it on him."

I wrinkled my nose. "You could… _smell _it on him?"

"Please, Berry. I hope you remember that before I met Sammy, I was a sex _shark._ I _know_ when two people did the dirty – and the dirty you two did do."

I raised my eyebrows, scrambling for the right words. "That-that's preposterous! I would _never-__"_

She marched toward me, pointing her finger at me in a very accusatory manner. "Don't lie to me, Rachel Berry!"

I stamped my foot in a very dramatic manner. "Why, San? _You_ did it!"

She shrugged. "Whatever. At least _I_ didn't cheat on anyone."

"I doubt that a _lot.__"_

I hadn't meant to say it. I really hadn't. Santana was taken aback by my comment. She, too, struggled for words. "You promised that we wouldn't mention that again," she snapped. "I love Sam. You don't get to ruin that for me by mentioning things that were never meant to happen."

I eyed her, feeling angrier than I had in a long while. "Well, maybe I should have brought this up sooner. I wouldn't have had to have made a fool of myself in front of my new boss because I tried to seduce him!"

"You wouldn't," she hissed, her eyes flashing dangerously, "You like him too much. You wouldn't break Sam's heart like that. I am _everything _to him."

She was right. I wouldn't. But she didn't need to know that. "I would," I lied. "You don't get to use me again, Santana. Friendship over."

"_Friend ship __over?__" _She exclaimed before laughing harshly. "Please, Rach, you really pulled out the big guns there. You sure you don't wanna say 'stop it I don't like it' while you're at it?"

I crossed my arms and tried to hold back my tears. I couldn't believe that my closest friend had turned out to be such a _bitch._ (Well, maybe I could. It was Santana, after all.)

"I know you won't tell Sam. But you know that I _will _tell Sarah about you and Finn if you so much as breathe a word to your new boss about my scheming."

I shook my head defiantly. "No. I'm quitting. I'll work at McDonalds before I help you again."

Santana didn't seem taken aback by my words. "Fine. I know you'll take that back before the end of the day. The offer to help me still stands. Remember that you won't get to follow your dreams any other way."

With that, she stomped out of the apartment and slammed the door behind her. The walls shook and Kurt's Julie Andrew's poster fell off of the wall. I groaned and flung myself onto the couch. I let my head fall roughly against a couch pillow and began dreaming of stage lights and applause.

Santana was right. In the end, I would always be selfish. It was just a matter of time before I cracked.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading and please review.


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